Summary:
One morning in November, Tony's honeymoon ends: Morgan hits her "no" phase. And as it turns out, navigating discipline is far more difficult than Tony's audiobooks make it out to be — especially when you have daddy issues a mile wide.
Note:
Yes, I'm still working on Iron Man: Life Story. But this niggling plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone until I started it. So yeah: hope you enjoy this little hook!
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1
On the morning of November 12, 2020, Tony Stark’s honeymoon officially ended — though he didn’t truly realize it until hours later.
Indeed, that day started much like any other Thursday. As on any other Thursday, by the time Tony - barefoot and clad in mismatched pajamas - padded into the kitchen and blearily wrapped his hands around his first coffee of the day, Pepper was already halfway out the door, rushing to catch her semi-weekly private flight downstate. Still, as she did on any other Thursday, Pepper paused at the threshold, turned, and welcomed her husband’s goodbye kiss.
“I left the shopping list on the fridge,” she said once their lips had parted. “And I mean it about the healthy cereal. I don’t want Morgan’s baby teeth to rot out of her mouth before she gets her permanents.”
“It was one cavity, babe. One insignificant, teeny-tiny —” But off Pepper’s Look, Tony swallowed his excuses and quickly changed tack. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. That was definitely my fault. And I solemnly swear I’ll stick to Cheerios from now on.” And to emphasize the sincerity of the pledge, he traced an X across his chest.
Pepper smiled. “I know you’re doing your best, honey, and I love you. I don’t mean to nag.”
“No, I get it. Our daughter’s dental health is important.”
“Just — keep the sugar in moderation, all right? The occasional special treat is still okay.”
“That’s a relief.” Especially since he was planning to take Morgan to the ice cream parlor that Saturday. “And by the way, I love you too.”
After one final peck and a tousle of Tony’s as-yet-ungroomed salt-and-pepper hair, Pepper departed, leaving Tony alone to feed their animals — and get the topic of their preceding exchange of banter out of bed.
“Okay, Tuna Morguna,” Tony announced as he walked into Morgan’s bedroom sometime later, a second coffee in one hand and a half-eaten gluten-free waffle in the other. “Time to get you changed.”
“No!”
Tony stopped short and blinked. “No?” He choked back a laugh. “Well, hate to say it, Princess Pea, but that’s not how any of this works.”
But Morgan wasn’t having it. “No!” she repeated, battering the side of her crib with her little foot.
Okay, not a big deal, Tony told himself in that moment. We’ve survived moods before. We can survive this one too.
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In the past, Morgan’s rare moments of resistance could usually be attributed to a missed nap or a developing illness. Tony ruled out the first theory right away; Morgan had gone down perfectly fine the previous night and had slept through without interruption. But while struggling through the entirety of his kid’s morning routine, Tony started to wonder if he was facing the second possibility.
“Your tummy hurt, boo?” Tony asked after both the forehead thermometer and one of his life signs probes reported status normal.
Morgan replied with her new favorite word: “No!”
“You’re gonna have to help me out here, then, ‘cuz I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
“No!”
Tony sighed and scratched the back of his neck. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the drip-drip of the leaky faucet whose washer he had yet to replace.
But then, once Tony had gotten his bearings and sufficiently recovered his confidence: Unstoppable force? Meet the immovable object. Few people on Earth could out-stubborn Anthony Edward Stark — even if they were eighteen months old, mind-meltingly adorable, and miraculously his.
“No-no-no, no-no-no, no-no nooo no-no,” he sing-songed to the tune of Jingle Bells, scooping his intransigent toddler off the bathroom counter with sure hands. He was trying to keep it light as they marched down the stairs. Trying to ignore Morgan’s protestations. Trying to brush off the sting of her kicks against his hip. Trying to hold off the frustration that was building at the edges of his consciousness like an encroaching bank of storm clouds.
Calm, calm, calm. Tony was absolutely calm, damn it — like the currently placid lake outside his window. He wasn’t going to lose his temper. Not with Morgan. Not today. Not ever.
And fortunately for everyone involved, that mighty discipline was initially rewarded. Tony successfully clicked Morgan into her highchair, and she settled, kept happy by the remains of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch he’d bought on his last grocery run.
So Tony relaxed, finished his third cup of coffee, and scrolled his way through FRIDAY’s news digest, assuming - with an air of self-congratulation - that the situation was now under control. Assuming the fight was over. Assuming the rest of the day could pass without a hitch.
Assuming he had skirted his most feared mistake.
Alas, a crisis was barreling towards Tony at mach speed — and the vaunted futurist, comfortable and reasonably content, had yet to spy its headlights.
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