Chapter Text
About five minutes after realizing she is pregnant — soft pink test with two straight lines still gripped between white knuckles — Cara Lewis already has a plan outlined for the next ten years.
First: Move away from California. Far, far away. As far as one can possibly be from Stark Industries. (East coast, perhaps?)
Second: Locate the best K-12 school systems in said area and buy a house within district parameters. Give the tiny thing now growing inside of her everything possible to be successful and, more importantly, happy.
Third, raise this kid to be nothing like their father.
~~~*~~~
Planning was always Cara’s specialty.
It is how she got herself through undergrad and graduate degrees at Columbia, despite her deadbeat father, and wound up working for one of the top marketing companies in the United States by twenty-eight. An absurdly young age to be competing for a partner position, she has been told.
It is how she steadily climbed her way up to a ritzy life that is utterly at odds with how she grew up — trading a ramshackle house in Michigan for a studio apartment in Malibu and an abusive asshole father for weekly appointments with a trained therapist and the occasional glass (bottle) of pinot noir.
Unfortunately, for once in Cara’s life, she failed to anticipate a massive wrench in her shiny, successful life in California plans: Tony Stark.
When Cara was hand-picked by her company to work one-on-one with Stark Industries and their rebranding team, she never dreamed that she would want to fuck Tony Stark.
Helping a weapons company look more wholesome in the eyes of the American public already made her feel somewhat sleazy. Why add sleeping with the CEO to her already morally ambiguous list? But mostly, it was because he represented everything she hated: born into money, born into an unattainable legacy, arrogant to the max, and somehow still managed to be a fucking genius.
It irked her, his casual intelligence that seemed to give him a pass to flounce around, wasting everyone’s time. The first few meetings she had with his team were not nearly as productive as they should have been... because Tony Stark didn’t even bother to show up.
His advisers didn’t seem surprised at all, smoothly apologizing for his absence with a stale excuse: “Mr. Stark is struck with ideas at sometimes inopportune times. He is in his lab, testing out a new design.”
Like hell he was.
Their third meeting adjourned nearly as soon as it began, as both Cara and Stark’s team were unable to make anything resembling progress until Stark gave them something, anything, even just a fucking memo sent down with what he wanted. She was seething as she made her way to the lobby, heels clacking as she stomped on Tony Stark’s expensive marble floors (imagining his face being impaled by her stilettos).
And then his face actually appeared. In person. Attached to the man waltzing through the front glass doors with a blonde on each arm and dropping Ferrari keys into the hands of a terrified valet.
“So, ladies, as I said, lunch with a side of hanky panky can happen any weekday, weekends unavailable due to a prior booking with the Russian Olympic aerobatic team. Just give my office line a call. I’ll book us a private room, some champagne, maybe a few poles—”
Cara wasn’t sure what came over her. Rage climbed up her throat at the sight of this playboy, barely pushing twenty-five, who was not in his lab creating genius works. No, he was getting his rocks off with Brittney Spears’ clones.
She had Tony Stark by the collar before he could think to yell for security.
The blondes scampered back, eyes staring wide at the furious businesswoman who had one of the richest men in the nation by the shirt. Tony’s dark gaze was almost comically surprised, yet still assessing, and he made no move to push her off.
Cara saw two beefy security men approaching out of the corner of her eye, but Tony waved them off as his gaze shifted into a leer. “Honey, if you wanted in on the action, all you had to do was ask.”
“I don’t want in on your action, Stark,” Cara hissed, yanking his collar tighter. Her crimson, manicured nails were dangerously close to his throat. She flexed them, just to make sure he could feel the scrape. “I want you to show up for your fucking meetings instead of wasting everyone’s time! I don’t care if you’re the wealthiest man on the northern seaboard—"
“On all seaboards, actually.”
“—You are an arrogant, insolent child who needs to put away his tiny dick and realize that self-obsession went out of style when democracy came into fashion!”
“Excuse me, what? Tiny?”
The expensive silk of his shirt crumpled under her fingers. “I’ve been here nearly four times for meetings that are utterly wasted because you are a spoiled little man, too busy fucking washed-up MTV models to attend!”
Tony opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but Cara was thrumming with adrenaline and took the opportunity to capitalize on his (rare, she was sure) speechlessness. “Oh, and if you didn’t already guess, take this as my resignation from your project. Good luck getting the public to look approvingly on your arms dealing, asshole!”
She released his collar, deeply pleased when Tony stumbled backward to regain his footing. With one last scathing glare, Cara turned and walked out of Stark Industries. She vaguely heard a bit of distant clapping, but her hands were shaking, and her ears were ringing with such thundering rage that she figured it must be a figment of her hopeful imagination. She didn’t look back to check.
If she had, she might have seen Tony Stark ask the front desk for her private number.
~~~*~~~
Cara waited by the phone all night. She was dreading the call from her firm, the firing she would no doubt rightly receive once they heard what she said to their largest client.
Part of her wondered why it was taking so long. No doubt one of Mr. Stark’s many officials had called to tattle on her and terminate their contract, or maybe Stark himself was the one who would demand her head on a pike.
Either way, she mused, her career was down the toilet.
The phone finally rang around dinner time, shredding the remainder of Cara’s nerves. The bit of soup she had managed to choke down was threatening to come back up as she stood, shaking, to meet her fate.
In the space of a few rings, Cara was hit by a sense of loss. She had moved to LA for this job, a city she despised! She had spent a small fortune on a new wardrobe benefiting an advisor to Stark Industries! She had worked her ass off for five years post-university, not allowing herself time for a social life, or friends, or anything approaching normalcy to get where she was.
And she had flushed it down the toilet for a moment of vindication. Now all of that work would be wasted, just because she couldn’t control her temper.
She took a deep breath and grabbed the phone. At least it was almost over. She could rebuild. Somehow, someway. She always did.
But it wasn’t the voice of her boss on the line.
“Hey there, remember me?”
Cara knew immediately who had called her; she just couldn’t believe it. “What the fuck?”
Tony Stark laughed down the line, warm and deep. “I get that a lot. This is Cara, right? Cara Lewis from Advantage Marketing Association? Of course it is. I knew as soon as you dropped the F-bomb. You’ve got a mouth like a sailor, you know that?”
Cara couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So, naturally, her brain-to-mouth filter disappeared again. “I’m from the Northeast, Stark. We tend to swear more.”
“You had me at maple syrup. Versatile. Sticky. Lots of things we can do with it.”
Cara let out a huff of indignation, the first emotion she managed besides shock. “Wait a second, Stark—”
But he barreled on. “Let’s get down to business, Cara. Can I call you Cara? Miss Lewis? Woman of my dreams, particularly the lewd ones?”
“The whole reason I was upset with you is that you weren’t getting down to business, Stark. Now you’re calling to sexually harass me?”
“Hm. Big word, harassment. I gotta be honest with you, Miss Lewis. Most people find it flattering. You know, billionaire genius playboy who is turned on and intrigued by previous fisticuffs and wants to treat the lovely lady to dinner? Sounds pretty flattering to me. You like oysters?”
Stark’s rapid-fire speech finally began making sense to Kara. She wasn’t being fired. She was being propositioned.
No. Fucking. Way.
Every bit of righteous anger from that afternoon suddenly flooded back into her voice.“Stark, I am not doing this. I am not eating fucking oysters with you.”
Stark huffed down the line. “Fine. Fine. No oysters, got it, not everyone is a seafood fanatic—”
In a rush of adrenaline, Cara Lewis hung up on Tony Stark.
~~~*~~~
He called her again that night.
She answered, realized who it was (“Hey there, crazy lady, remember me? Handsome billionaire you manhandled effortlessly today? I think I found a solution to our oyster problem — you know what everybody likes? Wine. How about dinner at my very own private vineyard tonight, complete with decadent blends, silky napkins, my own personal good looks— “), and promptly smashed her landline back into the receiver.
He called again. And again. And again.
And at some point, Cara had stopped scowling at his ridiculous messages and started laughing. The whole situation was completely off-the-charts insane. She wasn’t going to be fired for her behavior; instead, Tony Stark found her attractive enough to spend a whole evening calling.
Her career had always been her main priority and the compass that guided her decisions. She had not become the top consultant at her firm by insulting rich men, but rather by outsmarting them and proving herself invaluable. The loss of temper she had experienced with Mr. Stark was unlike her, deeply so. Yet, the universe seemed on her side. Somehow, that day, she managed to capture Stark’s attention in a strange, borderline unhealthy way. It would be completely idiotic of her not to capitalize on that.
She eventually answered the endless ringing after a few more hours of debating with herself. Honestly, she was impressed by his persistence. Her phone only seemed to pause for mere moments before starting up again. Tony Stark was clearly not used to hearing ‘no’.
“Finally falling for my smooth messages?” Tony Stark says by way of answering. Cara hides a laugh.
“Your voicemails consist of you listing all the things you’re capable of buying me if I have dinner with you. I have to be honest, I didn’t find any of it impressive.”
“What?” He demands in (what she hopes is) mock outrage. “I offered you a purebred pony! And when you didn’t bite, I offered an entire stable!”
“I’m allergic to horses, Mr. Stark.”
“I’ll breed some hypoallergenic ones.” He says immediately, an amused lilt to his voice. “Developing technology as we speak,” Cara hears the clacking of a keyboard in the background before he continues. “So, I’m Mister Stark now and not ‘pretentious asshole’?”
“Depends. I’m not interested in being your flavor of the week. Or day, I suppose. Hour is more likely, I guess?”
“I do move fast. And so did you, when I watched those beautiful legs march out of my lobby this morning.”
“Thank my Pilates instructor.” She deadpans.
“I would love to show her just how grateful I was to be on the receiving end of that Pilates super-strength this morning. Do you realize that you nearly lifted me off the ground? Very impressive biceps. And taller than I imagined you.”
“The heels helped my height situation,” Cara admits, before finally working up the courage to lay down her ground rules for the plan she has outlined in her head. “Alright, Stark, I've listened to your messages and have decided that we are agreed: no ‘hanky-panky’ for me, stud—”
“Agreed? When did we agree on that?”
Cara ignores his indignation and continues firmly. “But I am interested in starting and finishing what you hired me for. What you need me for, if you start attending meetings and stop fucking around while I’m on the clock.”
“… is that a no to dinner?”
“That is a no.” She confirms, happily imagining what face he must be wearing to match that sulking tone. “But, it is also the beginning of a possibly volatile but doubtlessly interesting work relationship, Mr. Stark.”
Stark sighs, resignation lining his tone, but he relents. “You had me at volatile. Be back at SI by noon tomorrow, let’s see if you’ve got bite to back up your bark.”
~~~*~~~
Tony keeps his word.
He appears- only seconds from being late nearly every time and usually a strange mix between scowling and sly– to every meeting throughout the next three months.
The other members of the Stark Media team look flabbergasted, not only at Mr. Stark’s appearance but at the fact that Cara is still on the team and not panhandling on the streets of Malibu.
She smirks back at them all.
~~~*~~~
As the weeks pass, Cara begins to see the genius that is layered behind the famous playboy and almost, almost, appreciates it.
Tony Stark is a funny man, she realizes. Saturated in sarcasm and unable to regulate his own need for vices in bulk—beautiful women, alcohol, shiny and expensive things. He’s childlike both in his earnestness and his excess; it is all a game of more, more, more to him.
Cara wonders what he is trying to make up for.
After two months of frequent meetings and putting up with Stark’s variously creative ways of flirting with her (she ends up being the first person to pet a hypoallergenic horse, which was very sweet, but Tony didn’t seem to understand that normal people don’t have stables attached to their homes), he finally relaxes his unrelenting, horny pursuit of her into something approaching friendship.
They talk over coffee. Over whiskey on ice. Over lunch and sometimes dinner. Nothing happens to make Cara feel pursued or wanted only for her body, and it relaxes her.
She begins to realize how starved Tony is for actual companionship, for someone to lay a friendly hand on his shoulder without trying to take something from him. It doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to understand that a man famous for his sexual exploits desires a deeper form of intimacy. Simple as a smile with no strings attached, a friend who stands at his side with no desire to utilize his genius or wealth or connections.
And despite the fact that Cara is working for him, she tries to give him as much of her friendship as she can. She tries to take as little as possible, to bring lunch for them both on long days and never let him reach for the black Amex in his slacks. She tries to show him that he owes her nothing for her friendship, and only a pre-negotiated paycheck for her hard work.
~~~*~~~
Obadiah Stane is a snake.
Cara can see it immediately. He reminds her of her father, charming smiles and pressed suits hiding oily motives and a heart of darkness. He works Tony over like a con artist, sneaking designs from his labs while plying him with women and booze.
The first time Cara watches it happen, she is struck dumb with horror.
Obadiah swaggers into the lab where they work, Cara typing into her laptop, Tony tinkering with a glowing screen. He enters without knocking, filling up the space with his meaty frame and slick smile. Cara watches in disgust as he lays two heavy hands on Tony's shoulders and cajoles designs from him with practiced ease.
"War in Iran is about to climax, Tony. We need to capitalize. Weapons of mass destruction are the new currency, remember?"
Tony smiles and agrees, pushing through papers to hand Obadiah a stack of sleek folders. They look like something more than just ‘old friends’. They are clearly comfortable with each other, but to Cara’s discerning eyes, it seems more like a son leaning into his father's touch, trying to earn his praise. Except this is not a son showing his father a new coloring page or achievement, it's love-starved Tony Stark handing over a weapon designed to kill thousands to a man with greedy eyes.
A man that Cara already despises.
"Here, a new missile prototype—"
The papers are in Obadiah's covetous hands before he finishes speaking.
"Tony, these are fantastic. Inspired. I'm so proud of you." Obadiah lays another heavy pat between Tony's shoulder blades, pulling a grin from the younger man. "How about you celebrate tonight? I have a few ladies who have been dying to meet you, a Spanish Flamenco team…"
Finally, Obadiah seems to realize that someone else is in the lab. His gaze flicks to Kara, up and down, assessing why she would be leaning against Tony Stark's lab table with a half-eaten tuna sandwich in her hands.
"Unless you already have company tonight!" Obadiah chortles, slapping Tony on the back. "What a looker! Is this the lovely lady who threw a fit in the lobby a few weeks ago?"
Tony's smile slips, just a fraction. "Yeah, this is Cara Lewis. She’s the representative from Advantage, managing the PR for our Iraq launch."
Realizing her cue, Cara reaches a hand out to Obadiah, trying to will the redness in her cheeks and the tension in her spine to subside. She's been underestimated by men before; she can manage this. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Stane".
He takes her hand with a bemused smile, as if she were a child trying to dress up as a businesswoman. "Tony has always loved a spitfire. You're letting them down in your labs now, Tony?"
Cara bristles. "And what do you mean by that? Absolutely inappropria--"
Obadiah waves an imperious hand. "Oops, made the little spitfire angry. I'll give you two space. Remember what I said, Tony. Spanish ladies are on hold if you can finish that missile."
And then he is gone. Waltzing out with a wink for Tony and a leer for Cara.
Cara is still furious. "He thinks I'm just your little toy? That was horrifically unprofessional! You just... let him say that to me? And why is he promising you women?"
"Cara," Tony warns, a tone flat and emotionless. "Drop it."
"Drop it?" She parrots. "Obadiah Stane is lucky I don't run to the nearest reporter with this shit. Not to mention, what the fuck was that? Plying you with sex for designs?"
"Stop." Tony barks. He takes a deep breath, turning away to run a hand through his hair. "He's all I have, Cara. A bit rough around the edges, but a good man who held everything together after my father died. The only reason there was a Stark Industries for me to inherit is because of him. He steers me in the right direction."
Cara stares at Tony, reading the heavy lines of his face, and bites her tongue. Is the ‘right direction’ one that clearly leads towards alcoholism and sex addiction?
But then she remembers the way Tony had lit up at Obadiah's praise, relaxed at his casual touch. She thinks of Tony's own bitter jokes about his father, the late and great Howard Stark.
Obadiah fills that hole; he has Tony manipulated and wrapped so tightly around his finger that there is nothing Cara can do about it. And why should she? A few weeks of pseudo-friendship with Tony Stark doesn’t give her the right to pry into his affairs.
"I'm sorry," She says finally, the words like ash coating her tongue. "I can see that he means a lot to you. I guess that really is just his humor."
When Tony smiles at her again, the lie almost feels worth it.
~~~*~~~
They finish their work. Cara has nothing more to give Stark Industries, no more advice on how to win over the American public than to make bigger guns and appeal to the less educated sector of Americans that seem to love the Second Amendment more than the ones that guarantee democracy, equality, and the right to happiness.
Tony Stark shakes her hand as they sign the papers, celebrating a 29% increase in SI interest after her work. His palms are warm, and his smile is true, which only depresses Cara more when she realizes that she’s learned to tell the difference.
The numbers are truly phenomenal. It is a record in her work, a record in California, and now Cara is free to leave Malibu behind and enjoy the fruits of her labor—there is a rumor that she will be offered partner before the year is out.
But all she can think about is how she may actually miss Tony Stark’s presence in her life.
Tony throws a party to celebrate—because, of fucking course he does—and Cara is expected to attend as the guest of honor.
Whatever that means.
(As if helping a weapon company make more money is something to be proud of, she thinks bitterly.)
She spends far too long picking a dress. She spends even longer sitting on the bathroom floor of her studio apartment, heart racing and eyes wet, because she feels as if she is on the brink of something huge, bigger than money and romance and Stark Industries…
…and all her intuition tells her is that Tony Stark is the key to it all.
~~~*~~~
She fucks him on his desk.
The party has been reduced to embers, only a few drugged-out and wasted stragglers lingering downstairs, blinking blearily in the flashing lights. It had been overwhelming. Cara is not used to huge crowds, especially not huge crowds that want to congratulate her and kiss her ass, and had begun drinking heavily early in the night to seem friendly and open to all the strangers who wanted to shake her hand.
Tony had been in the crowd, everywhere and nowhere at once. Flashing like a golden fish in a pond of silver, small glimpses that tugged on the gravitational pull of everyone in the room.
Everyone wants to be him—be with him—be in him—be on him—
Including, Cara realizes dizzily as she downs her fourth glass of champagne, her.
The room is hot, smothering, too close. She pushes through the crowd, past the faces of people who are just as fickle as the wind, who only want a piece of her because they believe she has a piece of Tony, and they are wrong, as much as she wants to—
She finds his lab. Downstairs, glass walls locked by a passcode that Tony mentioned to her in passing once, likely not believing she would ever remember.
But she remembers.
Her fingers skip across the touch screen, hopping against the numbers with confidence. The glass unlocks with a hiss. Cara lets herself into the steel room, eyes roving across the cars and robots and screens that make up Tony Stark’s head—
She stops. Presses her spinning head against the cold glass. Takes a deep breath, trying not to think of how Tony’s hands look when stained with grease, knuckles dark but face bright with genius. An alien tenderness wells up in her for this sad man-child, this young man who designs weapons that murder thousands and plugs his leaking holes with women and booze.
Suddenly, he is there. With her. Leaning against the glass with the same whisky-bright eyes, hazel and dark all at once, kind and cocky and full of fire.
Kara kisses him without hesitation.
"You didn’t get me a goodbye gift," she whispers, "this is what I want. Just once."
His eyes darken, whiskey churning into darkness, and he nods with his lips still on her skin, on her neck, on her breasts— Tony Stark takes his time.
He peels off her dress with steady hands and swollen lips, worshiping her in a way that Cara would never have expected from a selfish trust fund baby, taking his time and spreading her and pulling her apart…
When he is finally inside her, Cara cries. She feels a dam break inside her, intuition, sadness, and longing all fused into one solid mass of feeling.
"I don’t love you, but doesn’t this feel like it means something?"
He stops moving for a moment, those dark eyes focused on hers, allowing only honesty.
“Yes," he rasps. "I don’t love you, but this feels like something important."
Cara moans, loud and long, as he takes her, turns her inside out with longing and fulfillment and fire.
She falls apart in his hands again and again and again and knows that it is fate, fate and fire and iron falling down around them.
She leaves Malibu the next day, hungover and sore and stalwart in believing that Stark Industries holds nothing more for her.
Nothing.
Especially while Obadiah pulls the strings behind the throne.
~~~*~~~
Now, as Cara stares down the pregnancy test in her hands, she understands her part in this story, understands why she felt the earth spin on its axis under Tony’s touch...
A child.
Fear trails up her spine, freezing her mind. Not fear for herself or even her hard-won career, but for this little spark of life in her body. For the child, that would be half of herself and half of Tony Stark.
She closes her eyes and leans against the cool porcelain of the sink, dizzy from the direction of her thoughts. She thinks of Tony, so alone in the world, shackled as heir to the Stark fortune with no other true options. A broken man, a cash-cow left deep in a lonely laboratory, doomed to continue churning out devious designs like some sort of alcoholic Daedelus.
He is a complicated man, but Cara has a deep certainty that he could be a good father. Given time and practice. He would love the kid. He would be scared shitless, probably fight against the lifestyle change being a parent entails, but Tony always loves the things that are his. Cara knows this.
But what would become of his child? A daughter to take over as heiress, forced into a leadership role and given the wonderful choice of businesswoman, engineer, socialite or scientist? A son to follow in his father’s footsteps, drowning his responsibility in women and booze? A child destined to have hands steeped in the blood of all those killed by Stark weaponry?
Any child of Tony Stark’s would carry a heavy burden. Genius or no.
And any child of Tony Stark’s would be sure to draw the mentorship and attention of Obadiah Stane.
The thought nearly makes Cara dry heave. No. A sudden rush of firm intent courses through her—never, no, never. Obadiah can never know that Tony Stark has a child, can never know that there is another Stark out there for him to warp and control, to twist and tangle to his own ends.
A bone-deep sadness overcomes Cara as she holds the test in her hands, staring blankly at the future that must come to pass to keep this little spark of life safe. If Obadiah can’t know…
… Tony Stark can never know either.
~~~*~~~
Cara moves.
She leaves Malibu and all its dirty splendour behind with no real regret, desiring only to put as many miles between herself and Stark Industries as possible.
Naturally, she winds up on the East Coast. Her savings go far enough to purchase a small colonial home in Connecticut, the kind of home that Cara had always secretly dreamed of having—two stories with three modest bedrooms, a sunny kitchen, and a wraparound porch surrounded by tall hedges.
It is the kind of place that she wishes she had been raised in.
Her days turn slow.
There is enough money for her to stay out of work for a few years, courtesy of Tony Stark’s extravagant paychecks, and Cara takes advantage of this newfound freedom. She explores the small town, makes friends with a local dance teacher and the man who runs a local coffee shop. Attends a handful of yoga classes, finds a nearby doctor, and invites her new friends over for dinner.
She settles into the idea of motherhood and relinquishes her career ambitions with more grace than expected. Cara has never been the type to have many friends, and making them now, among her kind neighbours, makes her realize how much she has craved companionship.
Startlingly, Cara starts to realize that she needed Tony just as much as Tony needed her. She hurts all over again, roasting in the guilt of not saying goodbye, of not telling him about this precious thing they made together.
She picks a room upstairs that overlooks the front yard, one with a tall oak tree casting green shadows through the window. Hours are spent painting the room a soft lavender, the perfect color for a nursery.
~~~*~~~
Darcy Evelyn Maria Lewis was born on October thirteenth, only minutes shy of midnight.
Evelyn, for Cara's mother. Maria for Tony's. The smallest gesture she can make towards Darcy's father, towards the man that Cara knows she is cheating out of this brilliant happiness.
All the fear and anger and confusion regarding the idea of being a mother fled as soon as she investigated Darcy’s clear eyes and held her tiny, puckered body.
The universe around her seems to have righted itself, whirring and focusing in on the bundle in her arms. Already, she has a head of dark hair that rivals Tony’s, but Cara’s own sharp grey eyes.
All of the doubt, uncertainty, and guilt that she has carried around for nine months fade as she holds her daughter. This was the right decision. Her life will be devoted to protecting and hiding her little girl away from all things to do with Stark Industries and Obadiah Stane’s grand plans.
To raise her as a Lewis, never a Stark.