Work Text:
A message for… um… for me. Jesus Christ… Hello, Tony. If you’re listening to this, then your two-hour sleep schedule still hasn’t finished you off. There’s even a chance you didn’t drink yourself into oblivion.
Well… I hope you’re still good-looking. If not, I reserve the right to sue you. Excessive sunscreen kills just as efficiently as direct exposure to a radiation belt—unless you’re Reed Richards, obviously. The key thing is not to end up looking like Ben.
Wow. That derailed fast.
Anyway. The point is—Spider-kid said there doesn’t have to be a special occasion to leave a message for your future self. I’ve been doing plenty of stupid things lately, so adding one more feels on-brand. Some stuff’s been piling up, and I want to remind myself—just in case I forget again: we don’t have to fix everything alone. By "we", I mean you and me. We’re not required to clean up every disaster solo. Yes, that too. And that as well. And no—what are you thinking right now?—that one is also a terrible idea. There’s always a reason to delegate, even if it feels faster to do it yourself. Some people will give you looks, others will say you’ve finally grown a brain. You probably still don’t give a damn what they think, but try asking someone you trust. There are still a few of those left, right?
So… stop being an idiot without cause. Remember to breathe. Don’t invent anything that could blow spacetime to hell, even if you really, really want to sometimes. And… no, that’s it for now.
Oh, one more thing: if while listening to this you think everything is under control, slow down and check whether you’ve eaten today. That’s usually where the whole mess starts. Anyway. This was Tony. Signing off.
"That’s it?" Friday asked.
"That’s it," Tony sighed. "Bury it in the cloud. Hopefully future me won’t play this just to remember who Tony Stark is."
He pushed away from the desk, and stretched (something cracked in his back; gravity truly hated him), and headed into the living room.
There was a box on the coffee table.
"Fri, has this always been here?"
"Please clarify, boss."
"I’m talking about the deeply suspicious box with no ribbon and no logos. It’s in my house for no apparent reason. I'm not gonna allow it."
"It does not appear in the logs, boss. You may want to confirm that it isn’t ticking. How confident are you in your sprinting ability?"
The box wasn’t ticking when Tony approached it. And it didn’t even start smoking when he pulled out an ordinary office mug with the words “Stark–Fujikawa 2099” printed on it. Only then did Tony notice the note attached to the box—written in his own handwriting, unmistakably.
Don’t panic, it said. You made it.
Tony read it again, then nodded to himself.
"Message received. Friday, make a note: future me has completely lost his brakes."