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You certainly benefitted from nepotism here. You were a trained chef, sure. But being Pepper Potts' sister was undoubtedly the reason you landed the spot as Tony Stark's private chef.
You should be happy. You should be grateful.
But every day hurt more than the last. Your heart full of a sharp, constant ache. Your eyes are heavy with exhaustion you could never sleep away.
Smiling, talking, feigning laughter—all of it is more tiresome than running a marathon. You slip that cheerful mask on every morning and drop it beside the door in the evening.
Either you spent the night staring blankly at the wall, consumed by the emptiness. The numbness. The lack of anything substantial inside, just an empty shell.
Or you cried. Sobbed for hours, clinging to a pillow and begging your heart to stop hurting, begging your brain to just let you sleep. Begging your mind to give you pleasant thoughts, happy thoughts, to just want to live for once. Instead of the constant reminders of how pathetic you were, how much of a failure you were, how the world would be better off without you.
You tried everything, good and bad. You tried therapy, CBT, DBT, meditation. You tried weed, booze, cigarettes. Having an addiction gave you something to live for, at least for a little while. But nothing helped. Not really.
Eventually, routine was the only thing keeping you alive. Showering, working, breathing: all out of habit. No other reason.
Not because you really wanted to.
For the most part, you stopped eating. The irony of a chef refusing to eat wasn't lost on you.
You thought no one noticed. You hoped no one noticed. You were far past the point of asking for help. It seemed like it was only a matter of time before habit stopped being good enough and the inevitable happened.
You knew how you'd do it. Had the pills on hand and everything. You've always been a careful planner.
But someone did notice. Unfortunately. Or fortunately. You weren't decided on that.
And that someone was waiting for you at 4 a.m. as you arrived in the kitchen to start preparing for the day's meals.
"Mr. Stark," you say. "Good morning. Can I get you something?"
Tony Stark was a pendulum of a man. He either woke up at 3 p.m. or stayed up for 36 hours straight. And getting up at 4 a.m., calmly sipping coffee in the dark as he waited for his private chef, was very much out of character.
"No," he says simply.
You're exhausted and dull as always. Your friendly mask hasn't quite kicked in yet. So you keep quiet and go about your business, preparing the kitchen for the day.
Tony stays silent as he watches you work.
You move on autopilot. The day's first glimpse of Stark equals time to make his breakfast.
After a few minutes, you put his omelet on the counter in front of him, then return to chopping vegetables.
You hear Tony laugh quietly, but he still doesn't say a word.
For a while, the kitchen is silent aside from the sound of you preparing vegetables and the clinking of his fork against the plate.
Then, Tony speaks. "F.R.I.D.A.Y. keeps a close eye on this place."
That catches you off-guard. It jerks you out of your dull trance.
"Yes," you reply noncommittally.
"Keeps an eye on everything. Including the cabinets. And the fridge."
You frown to yourself, wondering where this is going.
"It has an inventory of stuff. You use it."
"I do."
"And F.R.I.D.A.Y. says," Tony says, casually eating his omelet, "that the only things used are things I eat."
Your fist clenches around the knife handle. You put it down.
Abruptly, you realize what he's saying. That fucking AI.
"I buy my own food."
"No, you don't." A simple denial. He doesn't even pause, doesn't even pretend to buy your lie. He's a blunt sort of guy.
You continue preparing the pot roast, putting the vegetables into the slow cooker. You say nothing.
"I have some less-than-ideal habits," Tony went on. "I miss meals. I don't sleep. I occasionally light myself on fire. But I at least know I'm being foolish."
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing.
"Any particular reason?"
"Reason for what?"
"C'mon." Tony scoffed. "I'm the king of self-destruction over here. If you're going to lie, do better."
"I eat. Don't be ridiculous."
"Aw, are you trying to gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss me?" Tony propped his chin on his hand. "Try harder."
You grit your teeth and fought to keep that calm, polite demeanor.
"Sir-"
"Anyway," Tony interrupted. "Whatcha making?"
He wandered over to the slow cooker, peering inside.
Just as quickly as the interrogation began, it was over. He doesn't say another word about it.
But you know he's watching.
You settle into a new normal: every morning, you go to the kitchen to prepare for the day. Tony is either already there or arrives shortly after, and watches you work. He makes conversation, but doesn't mention your eating habits again.
He talks about his projects, vents about the political infighting at Stark Industries, delivers play-by-play summaries of Formula 1 qualifying sessions.
And grudgingly, you admit you appreciate it. It's something to look forward to.
Usually you hate going to sleep, because it means you'll have to wake up again in the morning. This is making it a little easier.
It doesn't make the pain go away. Just gives you something else to focus on for a little while.
One day, you wake up and have this fist-sized lump in your gut. The numbness is there. The emptiness. And a sense of realization. This is it. Today.
Habit kicks in. You get up, shower, dress. Go to the kitchen, moving mindlessly. Listen to Tony's one-sided conversation.
You put food in the fridge for the rest of the day, planning ahead for Tony's meals. You've always been a careful planner.
Then you go back to your room and sit. And stare.
Today. Isn't it?
You reach for the bottle of pills.
The door to your quarters abruptly opens.
"Hello, hello!" Tony cheerfully announces his presence as he strides into the room.
You quickly hide the bottle in your sleeve, but he pauses in front of you and holds out a hand. He quirks an eyebrow.
Feeling like a chastised child, you reluctantly drop it in his hand.
Tony glances at the label and does a quick estimate of the quantity.
"F.R.I.D.A.Y. keeps a close eye on this place," he says. "I told you that already."
He sits down in a chair across the room, slipping the bottle into his pocket. He crosses his legs and watches you. Just watching in silence.
His face is hard to read. There's no judgement. He's calm and casual, like this was a conversation at a water cooler.
"You've been watching me," you say finally.
"No."
Instinct kicks in. You get angry, defensive. Your hackles raise.
"You have no right-"
"I'm not watching," Tony interrupts, as if you hadn't spoken. His voice is calm. "F.R.I.D.A.Y. monitors a lot of shit around here. Food. Vitals." He pats the bottle of pills in his pocket. "Controlled substances."
You look away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. You just want this to end. You want him to leave. You want to go to sleep and not wake up.
"Gonna talk to me?" Tony asks. "I've talked enough, why don't you throw your hat in the ring? Gimme a word or two."
"Leave me alone."
"Well, that was three words, but they weren't very helpful. Try again with a 'yes, and.'"
"I prepared the day's meals."
"Okay." Tony blinked. "Yes, and-"
"And I'm resigning."
"Professional courtesy is to give two weeks."
"I don't have two weeks," you mutter.
"Why's that?"
"Sir," you're struggling to stay polite, "please leave my room."
"Call me Tony." Tony retrieved the bottle of pills and started to toss it from hand to hand. "This is pretty hefty stuff. Could do some real damage if you take too much. Aspiration. Organ failure. Death."
"Sir-"
"Tony."
"Tony." You grit your teeth. "Please leave."
"Why would you do this?" It's a blunt question.
A painful question.
You attempt another dodge. "Do what?"
"It's a serious question. Why?"
The snark was gone. Now he was earnest, more earnest than you'd ever seen him.
It hurts. This hurts.
Everything hurts.
You don't say anything.
"I don't have a lot of constants in my life." Tony slipped the pills back into his pocket. "You're one of them. I know you're always around. Just having somebody else here, that means a lot. More than you know. I've never told you. Never said it out loud. I'm sorry for that."
Tears prickle in your eyes. You stare up at the ceiling.
Tony is quiet for a long time.
Finally, he says, "Can you just tell me why?"
You take a shuddering breath.
"I can't do this anymore," you whisper. "It's just-it's better this way. You can find a better chef, there are plenty in this city."
Tony's eyes widened. "That's really what you're thinking about right now? A replacement? That's-"
"It's better this way," you repeat. "Better for you, better for everyone."
"You can't really think that. Do you?"
"Yes," you whisper.
"You're not expendable, kid." Tony shook his head. "You're more than just somebody who works for me, you're a friend. You're my friend. And I can't stand by and watch a friend do this to themselves. I won't."
You look down, squeezing your eyes shut to hold back tears.
Before you know it, Tony is moving. He's standing up, walking closer, then he grabs you in a hug. He holds you tight, cradling your head against his chest.
Then those tears flow. They flow hard and fast and desperate.
"I won't," Tony repeats softly.
You break down into sobs, clinging to his shirt.
"I can't do it anymore," you choke out between the tears. "It's just too much, it hurts, I just want it to stop."
"You can do this."
"No, I can't." Your voice shudders. "I can't, I don't want to! I don't want to do it anymore, I shouldn't have to do th-this, it's not fair. It's not fair."
Tony rests his chin on top of your head. You hear the breath catch in his chest, but he keeps his voice calm and low as he speaks.
"You won't do anything stupid while I'm holding you," he murmurs. "You wouldn't dare. I'll just keep holding you."
"You ca-can't hold me forever."
"Watch me."
You sob in his arms and for a few moments you forget he's your boss, you forget the anger and bitterness you live with day in and day out, you forget everything but the sadness. It overwhelms you.
You don't have a lot of friends. Making friends means opening yourself up, means vulnerability, means risking the inevitable pain of abandonment. At least, you think it's inevitable.
In this moment, for the first time in years, for the first time in your life, you don't feel abandoned. You feel seen. He's holding you together, one friend to another.
"You're strong, kid. You've made it this far. Just have to make it another day. Then the one after that."
You let out a desperate, humorless laugh. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not." Tony grits his teeth. His voice is barely a whisper. "It's not easy."
"I'm going to try again." Your voice is miserable. It's the truth. You know you will. You know the pain will grow and grow until you can't stand it anymore.
Tony pulls back slightly, gripping your shoulders. He squeezes hard, grounding you.
"I'll be here." Three simple words.
Three simple words that mean everything.
You didn't want to live if no one was there. If no one would care. If no one would help you.
But I'll be here. That's a promise.
"Always. I'll hold you. I'll talk to you. I'll drive you insane with my bad jokes. And if I can't physically be here, I'll be there." He pushes two knuckles into the center of your chest, just firmly enough that you can feel it. "Right in there."
You press your lips in a tight line, struggling to stop another weak, shuddering sob from emerging.
Tony pulls you into another hug, holding your head against his chest.
"Always," he repeats firmly.
You hear the word rise up from his chest, feel it vibrate your ear. And you know it's the truth.