Written at 2am.
Probably the same time as this story takes place.
Tony was supposed to be composed.
He was The Iron Man. Iron doesn't melt with the slightest touch, doesn't break because of words.
His mind was steel and his heart was a night light.
Then why every time he tried to move his thought drowned him, oh god, they drowned him to the point he couldn't see.
His life became a vicious cycle of work, coffee, work, another coffee, more work and more coffee, until he collapsed, and then it all started again.
There was no safe place, he had no one to be there when he needed a harsh reminder that he was alive, no matter how dead he felt. JARVIS was gone, and Rhodey was paralyzed- because of Tony. He wasn't fast enough, his friend, his best friend (his brother) was hurt because Tony wasn't fast enough. He was never fast enough.
(He was never enough.)
Anxiety attack after anxiety attack.
He'd never felt so weak, even when he was held captive. (But he didn't like to think about that. Thinking is bad. Very bad.)
Steve deemed him unimportant, even after everything, because Bucky was back, so who was Tony other than a man in a suit of armor?
Barnes killed his mom, Steve apparently didn't mind.
(He just cracked Tony's heart open. Literally.)
Even after everything Tony tried to do, for Steve, for the Avengers, for the entire world damnit.
('He's my friend.')
('So was I.')
Who are you when you have nothing left?
Who are you when the last person who meant something to you tells you that you mean nothing to them?
(A man who has everything, and nothing.)
Another day, another meaningless contraption, he built and he destroyed, threw the parts away because how does he manage to build and build when all his life was destruction?
Maybe he deserved it.
Maybe he didn't manage to make something out of his life.
Maybe he never will.
(Sorry Yinsen.)
He tried, oh how did he try, but no matter what he was Tony Stark, and Tony Stark is a mess. Everyone knows that. That's why everyone assumes that the man of iron will just put on a suit and blast some more trees before he forgets reality and cracks another joke.
He sat on his dirty workshop couch, his bed, his head in his hands.
(His heart on his chest.)
And all he could do was pour a bit of whiskey in his coffee.
(Maybe just a little more.)
I hope it was at least a little bit understandable.Sorry if it wasn't. (Please comment, it helps my self esteem) Also, let me know if you want this to become a series, with the point of view of other characters.
