QUIVER [IRON MAN]

03.

"Hold me down, hold me down
Throw me in the deep end, watch me drown
Knock me out, knock me out
Saying that I want more,
this is what I live for."

Hold Me Down by Halsey.

Easton and Tony Stark sat in the penthouse of Stark Tower, AC/DC's Back in Black playing softly in the background. They were both in sweats and old shirts, hair a mess both reading files on the holographs in front of them.

"Damn," Easton started, "S.H.I.E.L.D sure don't hold back when it comes to excess details," she spoke, gesturing to the mounds of data in front of them.

Tony sighed, "all of this information's kinda making me claustrophobic, wanna drink kid?" He asked, walking over to the bar and pouring himself a neat scotch.

Easton looked up from the screens and rolled her eyes, "as long as it's not alcoholic, sure," she spoke with a smirk as Tony produced a bottle of Floyd's Rootbeer, Easton's favorite.

"Woah, sweet," she spoke, taking the bottle from her father's hands, "you remembered?"

"Your mom used to drink Floyds when she was pregnant with you," he spoke, his eyes glossy at the mention of his late wife, "she craved it, had me up in the middle of the night to go to the store and fetch a six pack home."

Easton was in awe of how her father talked about her mother, "seems like the craving integrated itself into your genetics," he finished, his eyes welling up, "just like I told her it would."

She took a long sip and then there was silence, until Easton spoke up in a timid voice, "what was she like?" She asked, which made her father raise his head and look up at her.

She'd previously warned off from talking about her mother, knowing that the conversation usually ended in a terrible ordeal of shouting, whiskey and her being holed up crying on the other side of her locked door, her father too drunk to compose himself on the opposite side.

"Easton, I-" she cut her father off from his arguments, and placed the bottle of rootbeer down beside her along with the tablet that was in her lap, slapping her hands furiously against her thighs.

"No Dad, no," she spoke sternly with her eyes beginning to water, standing up with a pained expression across her face, "I've waited sixteen years for this talk, and frankly I can't wait any longer," she raised her voice, a stray tear running down her cheek.

"I'm eighteen, Dad!" she continued to raise her voice, running a hand through her tousled brunette hair that was clinging to her damp, reddening cheeks, "I'm the only girl in my grade that doesn't have a mom to braid her hair, to give her advice on guys, to tell me everything's gonna be okay, to tell me to relax on my wedding day,"

"I'm the only girl who can't fight with her mom over stupid things, who can't collapse into her arms when she has her first dose of heartbreak, I can't go prom dress shopping and make her cry after I find the perfect dress - I just can't!"

Tony was heartbroken at the sight as his daughter, who continued to ramble about the things in her life she was lacking, the things in her life that he'd always tried to fill the crevices of.

He'd always been the one to do her hair in a lopsided pony tail for school, he'd always told her no boy was good enough for her, he'd always been the one to tell her everything that had gone wrong in their lives was gonna be okay.

He fought with her over stupid things more often than things that actually mattered, he'd been lucky to not have to deal with heartbreak at this point - although having 'the talk' was something he hadn't been looking forward to and thoroughly hated partaking in.

He thought he filled all of those gaps, but then he realised - a girl can't truly live without her mother, and he wasn't her.  He cleared his throat, and interrupted his little girl.

"S-She loved tradition," he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "she always, always wanted you to go to England and be the perfect blend of the both of us," he continued to reminisce, another tear making it's way down his cheek, "I just think she hated my accent."

Easton sat back down, and was captivated by the information, "she was smarter than me by a billion and she never let me forget it, ever," he spoke, "and she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, even in her darkest hours - she was like you kiddo, be proud of that."

Tony couldn't bring himself to continue, wiping his eyes and sniffling every so often - he needed a drink, but somehow couldn't bring himself to place the tumbler of whiskey to his lips.

Easton shuffled to sit next to her father in the new dead silence and timidly opened her mouth, staring out into the web of information in front of them, "I am proud," she spoke with a quiver in her voice, "I'm, I'm proud of us."

"Proud of us?" He asked quietly, running a hand over his face and through his hair, wiping his cheeks yet again now focusing on the corners of his tearducts.

"I'm proud of all we've done over those sixteen years," she elaborated, "you raised me, Dad. Even though you lost your wife and were given something that made it that much more difficult, you still fought for me,"

Tony wrapped his arm around his daughter's shoulders, "you were never difficult, squirt," he spoke, "and are you sure there isn't a sarcastic comment in there that you're holding back?" He questioned, rubbing at her shoulder as she leaned into his side.

"I thought about it, but I figured I should take it easy on you," she replied with a small chuckle through her sniffly tears, "I'm proud of you, Dad - I'm so proud."

Tony took a sharp in take of breathe and pulled his daughter into a hug, her tears staining his shirt as he rubbed up and down her back. He swallowed, "I'm proud of you too, sweetheart - she would have been so proud of you, so so proud."