Babysat by Uncle Tony: Chapter One
Summary: You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?
You hold the surname of Stark ever since your mother had given birth to you.
The moment you stepped into school, you instantly turned into the most popular child yet. Teachers, school employees, (all) students, and even other people from other schools knew you and admired you, as, not only do you carry the name Stark, but, you're practically a genius, – even if you were still a child back then – also, very, very attractive, and active in sports, as you are very good in a lot of activities.
You were nearly – no, you are considered perfect.
People nicknamed you "A", which stands for all the A pluses (and pluses and pluses) in your report cards, your attractiveness and for just 'all', meaning everything perfect and flawless.
People probably took pictures of anything that's you. Just a mere touch of a finger from you, they would go wild. A simple eyes-locked gaze from you with someone, they would go crazy. They would basically die for anything that just came from you.
However, your personality made that all very useless, as you were rather proud, prideful, self-important, self-righteous, arrogant, stubborn, conceited, superior, overconfident, selfish, and self-seeking – it was all about you and you only.
But, you still had (what you consider a very large group of people hanging out with you just to be popular and well-known in school and other places, as they try their very best to disregard your horrid behaviour) 'friends'.
Until, at the age of ten, in your birthday party, wherein your house was chucked with so many invited and uninvited guests, you finally met him.
Wearing large, dark shades and a very fancy-looking suit, he strutted into your home, with a kind-faced woman, whose face seemed to be over-freckled, hair red as the leaves during the fall season and big, green apple eyes, which really does remind you of autumn.
Eventually, you found out your parents (mostly, your father, who is actually a very close cousin of your uncle, had insisted) had invited him over.
Instantly, gasps, shrieks of glee and surprise were heard as people crowded around your uncle, begging for autographs, pictures, and mainly anything that purely came from him.
You were excited, superbly glad to see your uncle for the very first time personally – you've seen him mostly in television or in the radio.
But, that excitement vanished instantaneously when the center of the party (which is supposed to be you) was him, your uncle.
No one gave you any notice, even the tiniest bit. You tried to get some, but, only your parents listened of you. You basically were at the corner, watching your guests try their very best to at least take a picture of him or talk to him or, just anything.
Also, you never felt rudely treated – besides the back talks of your friends that you knew so well.
When you had called over a 'friend', they'd only stare at you in disgust and look away – like what you do to your other classmates.
When you had waved at a 'friend', they'd disregard you – like what you do to bystanders.
When you had approached someone, they'd move away to avoid you – like what you do to when strangers, who are actually your schoolmates, try to stand beside you.
And, then, you realized your mistakes, how you act toward people. It was all coming back to you.
Especially your uncle's personality: a total show-off, a jerk, a pain in the ass – an asshole, for that matter, egotistical, self-absorbed – so full of himself! Oh, and even though you were merely ten years old, you very well understood those words.
He didn't even greet you at least a simple 'happy birthday' when he arrived.
He didn't even say his farewell when he left (except for your parents, he said his goodbyes to them).
He practically didn't even notice you, acknowledged your presence, or maybe even, ignored you.
He didn't even give you a present.
What kind of person goes to a birthday party without giving the birthday kid a gift, anyway?
And the worst part was you couldn't help but compare yourself to him, and you knew that you and him were both similar – the same name, the same attractiveness, the same intelligence, just everything the same (except for your age, of course and other certain things).
Besides that over-freckled girl, who said she was his 'P.A.' (which probably stands for something like Problem Associate for your uncle's 'needs'). Moreover your parents, she was the only . . . real person, who really did recognize you. She greeted you, smiled at you, talked to you, and gave you a gift, even if the card said 'from Tony Stark & Pepper Potts' in elegant writing, you knew it came from her, and not from your uncle.
And after she left, you felt guilty and ashamed, as you have treated her badly – ignoring her and not paying much attention to what she says – yet, she acted nice, kind and friendly. You did feel bad, and wanted to make it up to her, which you did when they – er, she (your uncle didn't come) went to your next party.
Ever since that, you decided to change, to become someone better. Even if you hold, until this day, his surname, you will never be like him, ever, ever, again.
By the time school came, you were a new person.
You changed your personality – from those haughty traits to nice characteristics.
Still, you were rather mean towards your 'friends', as you know they only hung out with you due to your popularity, and not you for being you.
So, you searched for real friends – the kind that likes you for you.
And, eventually, you found them – not instantly though, it took time.
However, the teachers (and maybe even your parents) didn't need to worry about the change, as your grades were nonetheless straight A pluses (and pluses and pluses), but, they were glad for the much better behaviour.
And so were you, seeing that you were finally living the real life.
Though, people really won't stop respecting the Stark name.
"Do you like your uncle, A?" a good friend of yours had asked as you ate lunch with them.
Oh, and yes, you had kept the nickname, you like it anyhow.
You scoffed, and looked up, thought for a second before replying a straight, "No."
"So, you dislike him?" another chimed in.
"No." You replied simply.
"Then, what?" both asked simultaneously.
"I loathe him," and you meant every word.
Luckily, they didn't need to ask why, as they already knew the reason.
You were turning twelve in a few weeks when he had announced he was this 'Iron Man' in television.
You scoffed – him being full of himself once more.
"That self-centred bastard can't shut his mouth," your father had commented playfully, with the hint of pride, which made your mother scold him for saying profanity in front of you.
You barely cared anyway.
You agreed to him seriously: that self-centred bastard can't shut his mouth.
You were thirteen when the news spread about him providing 'peace' throughout the Earth, after he defeated that Russian guy, whose name began with Ivan, then, Vanko? Van Cow? Oh, and, also, the Hammer company – what was the CEO's name? He seemed to have the name of Justin Bieber. And really just Hammer as his surname. You just weren't sure, but, you didn't care anyway.
You watched when Senator Stern had given him a medal for his bravery with a small pin (which seemed to have hit his skin, as you saw him grimace ever so slightly; he deserved that, you had thought), also, that other black guy, who seemed to be his best pal.
You didn't know and you barely cared.
You were nearly fifteen when the news about that 'Avengers' group, which is composed of your uncle and other 'superheroes', swelled like wildfire.
The destruction in New York City was purely blamed at them, of course, and you had to agree – seriously, look at your house! The place you once considered your humble abode – home! It's squashed into a . . . a . . . vegetable or something. It just looks horrible! Now, you're going to have to live in an apartment, if ever there are still available and undamaged ones.
However, you couldn't help, but feel the tiniest hint of gratitude towards them.
Well, they did save the world. So, yeah, gratitude is natural.
Though, the thing that really bothered you was the fact that you were grateful for your uncle.
Tony bends down slightly and gawks at his creation in absorption and pride: an azure-glowing pyramid, thin as a piece of paper, small as the loop in your mother's wedding ring; it hang tight and protected in the center of a sphere, which is hovering above its cube projector.
It's actually a substitute power source of his Arc Reactor, the cause why he is still breathing, staring at his beautiful making and why the Iron Man armor suit is working and living until now.
Even if it seems to be just a power source, it isn't a simple one for it is powerful, very powerful, much more enhanced than the one he has now, however, he still considers it as a substitute (and he cannot bring himself to use such a beautiful thing); also, it is really useful, and extremely valuable, because, not only will it help Tony and the Iron Man suit walk and run, it can provide power to anything, meaning, utterly anything. It is dangerous to be given to the wrong hands – not that Tony has the wrong hands (or maybe, he has?) – because anyone could just do everything with this, that it needs to be protected.
The transparent sphere, where his magnificent creation stands, has the best protection he could ever give and produce. It cannot be unlocked by simply typing a password (though, it does have one), it needs a DNA scan, eye scan, fingerprint scan, all scans you can ever think of – but, only the one ever allowed to open it is its creator, of course, and it's very evident who that creator is – and other more, which cannot be enumerated as it is considered as classified information.
If someone has tried to unlock it, instantly, he or she will be dropped down to an unbreakable glass a few feet below his workshop, and when he finds that a spot on the floor is open, by the press of a button, the man will return above ground, however, still trapped in the glass, to see who did it and punishment shall be considered.
How he loves what he does.
You, currently seventeen, close the car door of the back seat as you take your spot, which is behind the passenger seat, beside the window, while your parents settled in theirs; your father on the driver's place; your mother on the one in front of you.
"Ready?" Your father asks once he shut the door tight and locked all the others.
"Definitely," your mother replies, gladly.
"Hm," was your reply.
But, your father takes it as a yes anyway, and in a matter of minutes, the engine finally roared to life and you and your family are on the road, approaching your uncle's home.
Giddy, you think sarcastically.
After a few minutes of travelling, which you still are doing, and since your mother cannot handle the silence, she starts a conversation: "Are you excited, sweetie?" she asks you.
Even if you actually know what your mother means, you still ask, "About what?"
"Meeting your uncle, of course," she replies, as though it was completely evident.
You snort, of course not. Has it not been evident for all these years?
"No," you reply.
You could probably hear your mother frown as she asks, "Why not?"
You scoff, "Mom, you know why,"
You heard your mother sigh, "Well, don't worry, honey," she assures you, "it's only for two weeks, right? Though, if you want, you could come with us."
Your mother just can't drop that subject, can she? She wants to bring you along with them to L.A. (honestly, though, you don't understand why, of all places, they chose that, it's on the freaking other side of the country) ever since you told them to have a two-week vacation on a place they like, for them to have a break from work and from you, but, you insisted not to, it's only for two of them, anyway. You want them to have some fun, (and a new sibling, if possible); meanwhile, your father doesn't really mind if you come or not, he's practically fine with both as long as you're placed in the hands of trusted people – assuming your uncle is a trustworthy man, which he isn't, of course.
"I told you before, mom, no." You reply.
So, she finally gave in. "Well, then, if not, you are to be babysat, alright?" she asks rhetorically, "We've already talked about this." She adds.
Oh my god, you are not a baby, as you told her previously and now, you are freaking seventeen years old, for Pete's sake.
"I'm seventeen, mother, for the love of . . . ," you mutter, as your voice trails off a bit, "I can take care of myself."
But, your mother, who took your father in her side, persisted. She must have casted a stern glance towards him, because, he suddenly chimes in, "And you're still a child," he states, "Your uncle is the nearest one from our house, and frankly, the best one to supply your needs for two weeks,"
Once this idea was suggested before, you instantly rebelled. Your mother implied about joining with them again, you refused right away, then, of course, the 'no alternative' lecture was said, after that, you finally agreed, though, not immediately, it took a long time for you to do so.
You sigh, "I know," you murmur.
"Besides, Aunt Pepper might be there," your mother adds, "I called her a few moments ago before we left."
Well, that cheers you up. Aunt Pepper is always better than Uncle Tony. She's constantly there at every celebration Uncle Tony was supposed to be invited in, bringing along gifts and pride, even if she isn't really blood-related, you consider her as part of the family.
"Yeah," you smile; remembering your favourite aunt, happily.
You notice a rather large, but, thin shadow looming over your family's vehicle. Due to curiosity, you look up through the window to see that you're already on the long path, lined by tall trees you aren't sure what kind that snakes up towards your uncle's home. You peek between them, only to see plain, trimmed grass ahead.
You look at the other side to find the circular, smooth concrete, where, in its middle, a light, gray H is implanted on it, which is usually the place where helicopters land, which is, also, a sign that you're getting closer.
So, you look straight ahead, and your uncle's house finally walks into view.
You couldn't help but feel a pang of amazement. A painted white, very large, and wide, built cement and glass, two-story (who knows there's actually something below that?) house – god, is that even a house? – that stands on the side of a cliff, which is why you can hear the loud, crashing waves, as they collide against the rocks who knows how many feet below.
And in just a matter of minutes, once you heard the annoying sound of water being spewed high, you know you're there.
Your family vehicle enters the wide, circular driveway, lined by the dancing, falling, spewing water, and trees behind them, where, in its center, plants, that aren't bothered being trimmed, as it seems to add some style with your uncle's abode, are placed.
And before you knew it, the car halts instantly, signalling your arrival at this magnificent house.
You inhale air to calm yourself; you haven't noticed how anxious you are to meet him until now.
Holding your bag, you open the car door and step on the smooth pavement.
You look up at your uncle's home, its vast shadow casting over you, and your family, including the vehicle.
Leaving the car alive for a moment, both of your parents step out of it, and approached you.
Your mother wraps her arms around you as an embrace, "I'm going to miss you, sweetheart, I really will." She whispers in your ear as her chin rests softly on your shoulder.
You embrace her back; your nose touching her shoulder due to how tall she is than you (soon, you'll be taller, just wait) – it is rather odd for a seventeen year old to be shorter than his or her own mother, you don't why you are petite, even though you are fit, you have regretfully assumed that you've gotten your uncle's height too. "Me too, mom," you reply.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you more,"
You feel her smile at your response. She, then, unwrap her arms, as she stands in front of you, wiping a tear from the edge of her eye.
"Oh, mom, don't cry," you slouch your shoulders.
She chuckles, "What are you talking about?" She takes a handkerchief from the pocket of her gray, pencil skirt, and uses it to bat on each edge of her eyes, "I am simply sweating through my eyes."
You let out a small laugh, "Yes, of course," you say sarcastically.
"I'll see you after two weeks, pal." Your father pops behind your mother, carrying your black luggage of clothing.
You smile, "Yeah, Dad, see you,"
Your father hands you the luggage, which you take, after giving you a small hug.
"I'm sorry, sweetie, but, we need to go." Your mother says, sadly.
"I know, mom, you have a flight in a mere hour – and the airport is far from here, blah, blah, blah." You wave your hand dismissively
Your mother's smiles tugs into a smile, "Are you sure?"
You nod. "Totally,"
Your father pats you softly at the back, "That's my kiddo!" he grins.
Both of your parents bid their farewells one last time, once they stepped back inside the vehicle: "Do say our regards to Edward!" your father shouted through the window, grinning mischievously; who's Edward? You think to yourself, waving back at them, Edward Cullen?
Then, they left, just like that, you alone in front of the horror you'll be soon facing.
You exhale, as though throwing out your anxiety, as you approach the dwelling, climbing the stairs to the porch, and stepping in front of the vast, mahogany door.
So, here, he is, nearly crouching to the height of the table on where it stands, so elegantly and peacefully, appreciating its magnificent sight.
Tony continues to praise himself on his beautiful work mentally, breathing in the spectacle before him. So grand, so glorious, so marvellous, so–
He grits his teeth at the sudden disturbance of his awe-inspiring moment.
"Pep–" he's about to shout the name of his beloved – personal assistant, rather, when he remembers she's in Washington, having a meeting with other CEOs of other companies, gone for two whole weeks. God, why did he have to promote her?
He sighs, as he stands straight.
"JARVIS!" he called out his artificially intelligent computer, which god knows where it is.
"Onto it, sir," He says in his usual British accent, knowing very well what his creator meant.
As the computer is checking, Tony has already climbed the stairs up to main ground; of course, not forgetting to lock his workshop closed, and is now making his way towards the main door.
"Sir, it is your [niece/nephew]." JARVIS finally says.
Tony cocks an eyebrow, "Pardon?"
JARVIS repeats, "Your [niece/nephew],"
"I don't think I have a [niece/nephew], Jarvis." Tony says.
"Have you forgotten Miss Potts' phone call, sir?"
"Yes, sir, the CEO of Stark Industries, in case you have forgotten also–"
"I got that JARVIS." Tony cuts off, rudely, "She called?"
"Apparently, sir. As it is from her cellular phone into yours, but, I have answered it, and placed it in loud-speaker, which, have you forgotten, sir–?"
"I know what a phone call is, JARVIS." He interrupted once again, "Her call must've . . . just . . . slipped my mind."
"As you say, sir," JARVIS says, in monotone, mockingly.
"I'm going to replace you sooner or later, JARVIS." Tony threatened.
"I shall wait for that day."
Now, Tony couldn't help but smirk.
"She called to tell you, your [niece/nephew] will be arriving, sir, as you will babysit [her/him] for two weeks." JARVIS continues, as though nothing has happened.
Tony grunts, but, he remains silent.
His [niece/nephew], once again, rings the bell, causing Tony to wince slightly.
God, hasn't this kid seen a doorbell before?
You enjoy pressing the circular, golden, piece of metal that is a doorbell, which creates an echoing ding dong mostly in the house, but, can still be heard from where you are.
Of course you know what it is, you're not stupid.
You press it one last time, and you can audibly hear it ringing inside the house.
As you reach out for the little bell, you instantly bring back your arm down once you saw the door open, not so widely, but, wide enough to reveal your uncle.
You're quite surprised at his attire. He didn't wear the shades, and the formal suit. He merely wore a plain, dark navy shirt, with you suppose is made of thin material, as the faint, circular, blue glow of his arc reactor (which you've seen in television) is evident, and dark bottoms, with simple sneakers – you practically can't recognize the man you once saw years ago. And is that grease on his fingers, hands, arms and shirt? How he got that – you don't know.
All in all, though, his face is still the same (just without the sunglasses). He still has his stubble and goatee (you see it hasn't grown, which signifies that he doesn't intend to grow a beard at all), his thick eyebrows, moustache (well, you presume it's a moustache, what else would it be? It's above the mouth and below the nose, where a moustache should be), and the nearly-salt-and-pepper hair (he's getting old). While other characteristics, like his pointy nose, ears, and tanned skin are, also, the same and didn't really seem to have changed.
But, the most disturbing feature of all, the one that is so out of place with all his manly features and his badass, also, douche attitude, is his eyes; his brightly twinkling, hazel eyes. They quietly hide below his thick brows, its breathtaking beauty concealed and unknown to unobservant people.
"What?" Ah, yes, his voice – unforgettable and still is irritating as ever.
You decide to make fun of him. "Are you Edward?" you ask, tilting your head slightly at the side, showing genuine curiosity.
He appears to have been affronted. "Excuse me?"
"Are you Edward?" you repeat, adding feigned excitement.
"Who told you that?" he demanded.
You try not to grin. "My father," you reply honestly.
"Your father?" he cocks an eyebrow.
"Yeah – now, really, are you Edward?" you return to the subject at hand.
He doesn't reply; he seems to be having trouble whether to tell you or not.
"No, kid, I'm not," he lies. Of course you know it's a lie, it's rather evident.
You pretend to be upset as you frown sadly. "Aw," you groan, "But, do you know Edward?"
"I don't know any Edward, kid – there's no Edward any near this place or in this house – speaking of this house, how did you get in here?" He looks around his driveway, searching for the answer, as though it merely stood there, somewhere in his front yard.
Though, he really does talk fast, and enjoys changing topics.
You can't help but remember yourself when you were a child.
But, you know that's over, and gone, away from you and your life forever.
As though it would push the thought away, you exhale silently.
"Are you sure you don't know Edward?" you ignore his question, as you deepen your frown.
"No – yes – no – I mean, yes, I am sure."
He's switching answers, you know, though, you barely understand them, as they were spoken in quite a speed.
"But, Edward's popular, he's famous, he's handsome, he's smart, he's–" you continue to rant positive attributes about this 'Edward', moving around, jumping slightly, as though you're a little girl, dreamily thinking about your pretend crush, while you do your very best not to laugh, as your uncle seems to calm down with the compliments, thinking they're for him.
Then, just when he opens his mouth to admit it, you say it–
"He's a vampire!" You exclaim last of all.
He seems to really look rather offended.
Now, you couldn't control your laughter anymore. His face – oh goodness – his face – the look on his hairy face! Priceless! You think, as you clutch your stomach, laughing out loud. You close your eyes tight, as they begin turning wet at all your laughing.
Finally, after how many seconds or maybe even minutes, you calm down. You wipe your eyes, as a few drops has escaped from your eyelids' clutches, and let go of your stomach, looking back up at your uncle, who appears to not have moved throughout your cackles.
But the face. Oh, dear, god, it's still there.
You bite your lip, controlling your laughter. Once you have managed to rule over it, you breathe in and out, trying to get your normal pace of breathing.
"I am so sorry about that–" his face – no, you haven't restrained your cackles, "oh my god, wait, no, I am not sorry at all!" You begin laughing again. "You should've seen your face! Dear god–"
After most likely a minute of laughing, you will yourself to relax. You look back up at him, feeling no longer amused.
"Are you done?" he asks.
"Yeah," you respond, breaking into a grin.
"Good. I got a few questions."
"I'd answer them for your sake," you grin wider.
"Hm," he hums, "Alright – so, you're my [niece/nephew]?"
"It is sad to say, but, yes," you reply.
He seems insulted. "Sad to say? Excuse you, kid–"
"I have a name," you cut in.
He disregards it. "–you ought to be proud you're wearing my surname. There is rarely anyone who does."
You scoff, "Sure, I'm really lucky." You say; your tone thick with sarcasm.
His eyes squint in suspicion at you. "Whatever, kid. You should still be proud."
You quietly mumble your 'whatever'.
"So, that means I'm your . . . uncle?" he seems to have a hard time saying that.
"No, Edward, you're my gay father." You reply, sarcastically.
"You enjoy being sarcastic." He comments.
You smile, "That's old news."
"It seems impossible for us to be blood-related." He says.
For the first time in your life, you agree to him. "I've said that to myself tons of times." You say.
"Who are your parents?" he asks.
"You mean, you don't know them?" you cock an eyebrow.
"I can't recognize anyone with your . . . appearance," he finally decides on the word.
You smile, "Yeah, I don't look like anyone at all, huh?"
He replies after half a second of silence with a nod, "Nope, none at all."
"Well, anyway, my parents are Mr. and Mrs. Stark," you reply, with a hint of mockery.
"My parents' names are Mr. and Mrs. Stark. Are we siblings then?" he says, joining in your joke.
"That's awful," you frown, as though someone has told you horrible news.
He stares at you, his (though, you won't admit it) adorable eyes piercing through you. But, you're not bothered anyway.
"Who're your parents?" he asks once again.
And this time, you reply much more seriously than before.
He nods, before another question pops up, "Anyway, what's your name, kid?" he inquires, although, it's rather apparent that he doesn't give a crap about what your name is.
But, you reply your name anyway, though; you have a hard time saying your surname.
"Got any nicknames? Your name's long." He says.
Dear god, he practically didn't even listen to your name or you for that matter, at all.
You sigh, and after whispering lazy-ass, you reply, "A."
He doesn't speak.
He looks at you expectantly.
Before he realizes you already spoke.
"Pardon?" he says, leaning ever so slightly closer to hear you.
"My nickname's A," You reply plainly, "A as in the letter A," you add, knowing what a monkey brain he is.
He knits his brows, considering your name or you even.
Then, his brows return to their proper places.
He seems to have made his verdict.
"I told you, I have a name–"
"Doesn't matter, it's still kid–"
"But, I'm not a kid–!"
"Whatever, kid; how old are you–?"
"I'm seventeen, for the love of–!"
"You see, kid, as long as you're below eighteen, you're not a legal adult yet–"
"Since when are you a legal adult–?"
"Ever since I turned eighteen, and I was already done at college back then. Now, kid, I made my decision–"
"Who cares about your decision? It won't change anything–"
"Oh, my decision affects everything, kiddo, believe it–"
"Wow, so, now, it's kiddo–"
"Yes, kiddo, it's kiddo–"
"But, I am not a kiddo nor am I a kid–!"
"I told you, as long as you are below eighteen, you're not a legal adult–"
"Oh, shut up, will you? You don't listen to anyone, and you don't even do legal stuff–"
"How can you say that, kid, when you haven't even met me–"
"Y-you don't remember?"
You couldn't actually believe it.
You expect it, of course, but, for some reason, it's hard to believe.
The tiniest spark of hope shines, as you wait for his reply.
"Remember what?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.
That spark vanishes instantly.
He doesn't remember.
He doesn't remember the party, everything – you.
And the worst part is the fact that you feel hurt.
You remind yourself: of course, he won't recall, it was like six years ago! Who would remember? Really? Especially him – of all people!
"N-nothing," you mumble, looking down, as you swallow the lump on your throat, which you haven't notice until now.
He seems to have disregarded this, as he persists on speaking.
"Well, whatever, kid," he pauses, as though awaiting for your cut-off, but, you don't, you merely wait what he needs to say; seeing that you won't interrupt, he continues, "Anyway, I made my decision."
He pauses for dramatic affect (as I placed this sentence underneath that paragraph).
EDIT [7/1/2012]: Sorry, I needed to edit it, like changing your age into seventeen, and the exterior of Tony's house, also, JARVIS' name into capital letters. It's because, I'm rather factual when it comes to these kind of stories. Sorry. I hope you didn't mind reading it again.
Thank you for your consideration. (:
My very first reader-insert, unisex reader-insert and Avengers story. I don't know what to say. I probably just had too much fun writing this 18-paged first chapter that I've forgotten everything I needed and wanted to say in the Author's Notes.
Well, anyway, uh, I apologize for making you a bad character. It's necessary for the story, to show how much you hate Uncle Tony. But, don't worry; you're a good person now! :D Also, for the nickname A if you don't like that much.
Sorry if ever Tony is OOC or Out Of Character. Tony is not an easy character to write about or portray, I tell you. Robert Downey knows it better, and does it better. I tried my best on making him a real pain-in-the-butt, really sorry if it didn't work out well. Also, though, in the comics, Tony has blue eyes, but, in the movie, he has hazel or brown, but, since this is the movie-verse, I chose hazel/brown. w
Oh, and yeah, I know, in the Avengers, Pepper is supposed to be Tony's P.A. again, but, in this one, let's make it that she is still the CEO, huh? :D
In my other story, which is a Percy Jackson account (called Impossible To Like You – new readers, check it out if you're a PJO fan), don't worry my PJO readers, I will still continue it. (:
Speaking of continuing, I'm not sure if I can continue this one, because, if this doesn't get much reviews or readers, I might not. This idea has been roaming around my head since summer and I've wanted to do for such a long time. Plus, this really has a story line.
So, anyway, yeah, that's all.
Enjoy, Read, and Review!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or you. Just the story.