Hello~ So, if you read my other stories you've probably noticed a lack of updates. First reason, I finally saved enough money to build myself a computer that doesn't sound like it's ready to explode when I have Spotify and a word document open at the same time. So yay! Second reason, I've been going through some serious writer's block in terms of where to go next with Loki Returns. I am Iron Man, not gonna lie, just been lazy. I have things written but it's not ready to be posted. Not to mention I don't have Microsoft word yet, just Word pad and it's a bit annoying.
So while I figure out how to end my other story, and to give myself an excuse for procrastinating with the other, I started a new fic! Exciting, I know. I have like, 1/4 of a plan for this one, but I promise it'll be good. I hope.
I just really wanted to start a Civil War fic, because I love Tony and Steve and I have a lot of feelings about this movie. I won't be bashing Steve, I won't be bashing Tony, but there will be feelings and accusations from the current character's POV, towards others. If that makes sense. SORRY THIS IS LONG, also at times I might be a bit bias towards Tony but I can't help myself so sorry not sorry at all.
Tony,
I'm glad you're back at the compound, I don't like the idea of you rattling around a mansion by yourself. We all need family. The Avengers are yours, maybe more so than mine. I've been on my own since I was 18. I never really fit in anywhere – even in the Army. My faith is in people, I guess. Individuals. And I'm happy to say, for the most part, they haven't let me down. Which is why I can't let them down either. Locks can be replaced, but – maybe they shouldn't. I know I hurt you, Tony. I guess I thought – by not telling you about your parents I was sparing you, but… I can see now I was really sparing myself. I'm sorry. Hopefully one day you can understand. I wish we agreed on the Accords, I really do. I know you were only doing what you believe in, and that's all any of us can do, it's all any of us should. So no matter what, I promise if you — if you need us. If you need me, I'll be there.
Steve
He had only read it once, but it was enough to burn the words into the back of his mind. It's one of the downsides of being a genius with a photographic memory; there are certain things he'd rather not remember.
He doesn't want to be reminded of the way Steve had looked at him, right before he slammed the shield into his arc reactor; doesn't want to remember the raw fear he had felt in that moment.
He had never dealt well with fear. He wasn't afraid of much when he was younger, and the things he had been afraid of only proved to earn him a reminder from his father that 'Stark men are made of iron- Steve Rogers wouldn't have been afraid of the dark, boy, so why should you?'
His mother had told him it was okay to be afraid, and Jarvis assured him the same, but he could only ever recall shaking his head 'no,' and repeating those damn words.
'Stark men are made of Iron.'
He always assumed it had worked, repeating the same mantra in his head until he no longer saw a reason to fear. But there had always been one thing he couldn't shake.
He was afraid of not living up to his father's expectations- of not living up to the great Captain America.
And isn't it funny? How his greatest fear had been truly realized when the man himself had been looming over him, bringing his shield down for what Tony thought would surely be the killing blow.
That wasn't even the worst part- no, the worst part was that he had welcomed it. Sure, he had covered his face- it's a natural instinct, like reaching out with your hands when you fall- but thinking back to that moment, he realizes now how ready he was to die.
He's tired. He's been tired for a very long time, maybe as far back as Afghanistan. But New York was the big wake up call- the realization that there are, in fact, aliens- thousands of them- and even more than that who want to kill them. Not only are there aliens, but now there are strange supervillains, constant threats and kids with powers who are too damn young to have that kind of pressure weighing them down.
He's tired, and he's afraid- things his father had never wanted him to be.
Not only had he shown fear, but he had shown weakness. And maybe that's why he was still here, now, sitting alone at his desk in the empty Avengers compound at 3 AM, staring at an unopened bottle of scotch and the offensively old cell phone beside it. Maybe that's why he had forced himself to stand once Steve- no, Rogers- and Barnes had left. He had forced himself to stand and grab the shield, to send a distress call to Vision and Rhodey.
A large part of him hadn't wanted to. He considered just lying there in the freezing cold, waiting for hypothermia to take him, and if not that, then soon enough dehydration and hunger would have done the trick.
But he had gotten up despite all of that, because if he had allowed himself to die there, he might have had to face the disappointed glare of his father, the worried frown of his mother, and he just couldn't bare it.
He was never one to believe in a heaven or a hell- though surely if he were going anywhere after death it would be the latter- but he hadn't believed in Gods, either, and well... look how that turned out.
He sighed, running his shaking fingers through his hair and down his face. It had only been two days since Siberia, but he hadn't slept since. He's been too busy helping Rhodey through physiotherapy, tweaking the designs for his leg braces, and ignoring angry calls from Secretary Ross about the raft break out. Not to mention that he's been left to deal with the fallout of their little 'Civil War,' so he's sure he'll be hearing more about that very, very soon. For the time being, however, he just needs some time alone- not that achieving isolation should be particularly difficult these days.
He's been trying his damn hardest not to stare at his desk drawer, where the letter sat, soon to collect dust. He took the phone out earlier when he had grabbed the sealed bottle of scotch. He doesn't know why exactly- maybe it was to keep him from breaking the seal on the alcohol- would give Howard and Rogers one less thing to be disappointed in him about.
He's not weak- he isn't- and he won't open that damn bottle.
But it's tempting.
He wants to feel the burn as the liquid slides down his throat; wants to feel his mind go numb, even for just a while, so that he doesn't have to remember Steve and that damn letter. He doesn't want to remember the feelings of betrayal and think about how alone he truly is- always has been.
He can't look at it anymore, so he turns his chair, only to be faced with another offending object.
The shield sits on top of the shelf behind his desk, staring at him, reminding him of happier times that he'll probably never have again. The Avengers- it was good while it lasted, short as it was.
But then again, maybe he never really had the Avengers. Natasha hadn't wanted him on the team in the first place, and while he thought they had moved past that, maybe he was wrong. He was their tech guy, the guy who fed them and gave them a home, did his best to keep them safe. Hell, he had put himself in harm's way more times than he can count (well, maybe not count, because of course he could count it). He still would in a heartbeat, no hesitation. But now that he's thinking about it, he's not sure the feeling was ever truly mutual.
He had given everything for them, even Pepper- no, god no he's not going to think about Pepper- and yet still, in the end, he's alone.
He's always been on his own, but that's nothing new to him. So why is he so damn angry?
He feels his eyes start to water, but all it does is fuel the fire already bubbling up inside him, begging to be let out. He turns back around, grabbing the bottle of scotch and throwing it at the wall. It shatters with a horrible crash, liquid and glass falling to the floor like rain.
He stares at the remains for a moment before leaning his elbows on the desk, burying his face in his hands. Through the spaces between his fingers, he can see the ancient phone mocking him, silently begging him to pick it up. He's about to grab it and lob it at the wall too, but he stops short when there's a gentle knocking at his door.
He quickly grabs the phone, but instead of throwing it he tosses it into the desk drawer alongside the letter.
"Yep," he says, and the visitor opens the door, rolling inside in a wheelchair.
"Tones?" Rhodey says as he makes his way inside, fumbling a bit with getting the door closed, but he manages all the same. Tony could have got up helped him, but he knows his friend would have pushed him away, insisting that he could do it himself.
"What are you doing out of bed?" He asks, genuinely curious and a bit concerned. Has Rhodey not been sleeping? Is he in too much pain to get some rest, and has Tony been too selfish and caught up in his own drama to notice? He feels a pang of guilt as the thought crosses his mind.
Rhodey hesitates for only a moment, but he uses the time to wheel around the desk to face Tony. "Friday told me something was wrong, so I came to check on you." He glances at the broken glass and amber liquid scattered across the floor, then back to his friend, "Everything alright?"
Tony wants to tell him no, he's not alright, not at all. But he can't, because Rhodey doesn't need that right now, doesn't need more problems weighing down on his shoulders; he has enough to think about without having to babysit Tony.
"Yeah, peachy, actually. You know," he racks his brain for a topic to shift the attention away from his mental stability, "you could have just called. You didn't have to slip into your speed racer and come all the way up here."
His friend snorts at that, shaking his head as he observes the wheelchair, "It's hardly a speed racer, Tones. And you're changing the subject."
"It could be a speed racer. Give me one night and you could be as fast as one, faster even."
"Tony."
"No really, this is great- your racing name could be The Rhodester- get it? Because Rhodes is your name; it's perfect-"
"Tony!" Rhodey lays a hand on his shoulder, and Tony reluctantly bites his tongue.
He's doing everything he can to avoid looking at his friend. Rhodey is giving him the look- because he knows and he shouldn't have to deal with problems like Tony, god damn it.
So he slips on a smile; it's fake, Rhodey can tell. It's his media smile, and it never reaches his eyes, but Jim doesn't need to see him like this. So Tony gives him a reassuring pat on his own shoulder, and a short nod.
"Honey bear, I know you can slip into Mamma bear at times, but I assure you, I am fine. Go get some rest, you have physiotherapy tomorrow, and you can bet your ass I'm going to be there. I don't need to be dealing with you when you're all sour: wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
That gets a chuckle out of him, and that's good- Tony can work with that. He knows that Rhodey knows something is up, but he won't push for now.
Jim gives him one last, long hard look, one that makes Tony feel like he can see inside his head, and then ruffles his hair. Tony grins- a genuine grin, for the first time since this whole mess started- and tries batting his hands away.
Eventually, Rhodey takes pity on him and starts wheeling towards the door, but before he leaves he glances at the broken glass again, then back to Tony."Get some sleep, Tones. You look like shit," he says, his lips curling into a teasing yet concerned smirk, and Tony has to smirk back.
And then he's gone, and Tony is alone, at least for the night.
Right?