#come to think of it I was sneaking CP references into my fics long before the Finnemore thing was even announced

[captainclickycat]

Ok so Crowley ordering a Talisker could be a coincidence but given the writer…

[the-glow-of-the-cities]

A Five Letter Problem- Prologue (part 1)

Summary: When you're suddenly reunited with your estranged father, you get a little more then you ask for. In the span of two weeks, your life is flipped upside down, you move out of your mother's small, Boston apartment, and into your father's enormous tower in NYC. Pretty soon you've found a family and friends, but knowing who you know means danger is lurking just around the corner.

A/N: So... This is the first chapter of my first fic... like ever... It’s been up on AO3 for a while, but I’m putting it up chapter by chapter on Tumblr now so boom! Btw if anyone ever wants to chat (about this fic or otherwise) just hmu pls. ALSO, I have no clue how child protective services works so I kinda made shit up, don’t murder me, please

Warnings: References to drug/alcohol addiction, implied child neglect

Words: 1.1k

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You have a problem.

A five letter problem. You have a problem that consists of your last name. No, not your last name, his last name. Your problem is the name Stark. Specifically Tony Stark, that's your problem. “What?” “That’s what it says here, miss.” “And I’ve told you that’s not right.” “Miss that’s what your birth certificate says.” “Bullshit.” “Miss-” “Bull. Shit.” “I’m sorry miss, but I’m required by law to contact your closest living relative in a situation like this.” “He is not my closest living relative.” “I’m sorry, but we have to make the call. However, you can do a blood test when he arrives if you’d prefer.” “Fine, you know, whatever, go ahead, but I can personally guarantee that whatever document you have is wrong.” “Alright miss. For the time being, do you have any relatives in the area you can stay with?” “No, but I have a friend that will let me.” “Excellent, why don’t you give me their phone number and I’ll be right back.” You write down your best friend’s name and number on a piece of paper, then hand it to the man in front of you. Alice would help you figure this out, she always does. As the CPS worker leaves the room, you resign yourself to a long wait, filled with unwanted thoughts and brewing emotions. Today was finally the day. The last straw finally broke the camel’s back, and you were glad goddamnit. The camel didn’t have to struggle, and you didn’t have to fight to keep the camel going. The camel was your mother. More specifically your mother and her, well, less savory tendencies. She had never hurt you, and you knew she never would, but every day, in the early hours of the day while the sun was still behind the trees, and yet the sky was just starting to become very slightly lighter, your mother would come stumbling through the door. When this happened, she would smell like alcohol, weed, or some combination of the two. One particularly rough day she came home smelling like urine, that was fun. You hated it, hated her. No, you didn’t hate her — only it. You knew you didn’t because every morning when she stumbled through the door you would always do the same thing. Fill a glass of water, start a shower, lay out fresh pajamas, replenish the water bottles in the fridge you always left there for your mother, tuck her in, and dispose of whatever substances she smuggled into the house. Then you would lay out her clothing for work, get the painkillers from their hiding spot in your room, ration out your mother’s dose of pills, re-hide the pills, and pack her a lunch before sneaking in a few fitful hours of sleep before you really had to get up. If you hated her, you wouldn’t go through all that trouble for her.

A knock on the door shook you out of your thoughts.

“Miss Y/L/N? May I come in?”

The same irritating voice of the social worker crept in through the cracks in the door and into your ears.

“Come in.”

“Well we contacted your friend Alice’s mother, and she says that she would be happy to take care of you until we can contact Mr. Stark.”

“When will she be here to pick me up?”

“20 minutes.”

“Alright.”

There's a moment of silence as you think, trying to figure out what else to say.

“I-I’m sorry, but I never caught your name.”

“Oh, of course, it’s Joshua James, but just Joshua works just fine.”

“Joshua. Got it.”

“Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?”

“No, I’m ok, thank you.”

“Well let me know if anything comes up, miss”

“Wait, Joshua, I actually can think of something. Any chance I could get a notebook and pencil in here? Please?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Once again he leaves you to your thoughts and the short, yet excruciatingly long wait.

------

Tony’s POV:

Tony sits at the dinner table in Avenger’s Tower. His team around him, all eating Chinese food from the place down the street, talking, laughing, bonding, and having a good time. He’s listening in on a conversation between Natasha and Clint, who is in on one of his occasional visits to the tower, about whether or not water has a scent when Jarvis’s voice cuts through the din.

“Excuse me, sir, you have a call waiting for you in your office, they say it’s urgent.”

The conversations fade away for a second while Jarvis speaks.

“Thanks, Jarvis, please tell them I’m on my way,” he paused and addressed the group, “I’ll be right back, try not to kill anyone or destroy anything while I’m gone, ok, children.”

He could hear the uproar from the rest of the group outside the kitchen and smirked to himself at his own joke. As Tony walked into the elevator he ran through a mental checklist of what the call could be about: could Rhodey be calling to check in? Unlikely as they had spoken the day before. Fury calling to ask about the team? Equally unlikely after the events that led to the fall of S.H.E.I.L.D just a few months ago. A business meeting he had forgotten about? Impossible, he had Jarvis take note of all of those the moment they were made. With the ding and lurch of an elevator reaching its destination, Tony steps into his office and decides he’s utterly stumped.

“Jarvis, patch me through to the caller please?”

“Done, sir.”

“Hello, this is Tony Stark, who am I speaking with.”

“Hello, Mr. Stark. This is Joshua Jones with Child Protective Services, I’m calling to inform you that your daughter has been removed from her mother’s custody, and, as you are her closest and only living relative, we are obligated to contact you about your daughter’s future living conditions.”

Tony is silent for a moment, contemplating what this man just told him, “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

“You did say you’re Tony Stark, did you not?”

“I did, but I don’t have a daughter.”

“She seemed to think it was unlikely as well, but that’s what it says on the girl’s birth certificate.”

“Look, is this some kind of sick joke?”

“Sir, I can assure you I am serious.”

“What’s her name?” Tony says, in a soft, curious tone, after all, if he did have a daughter he knew exactly what he was going to do.

“Y/N Y/L/N”

“Oh,” says Tony, he does remember your mother after all. Of course, he will still need to run a DNA test, but damn it, he might have a daughter. He tries to form a coherent sentence over the commotion of thoughts in his head, but all he can muster is a confused, and yet slightly excited “huh.”