Disclaimer: I do not own anything that has to do with Iron Man, the movie, the comics, Marvel, or any other goodies which I enjoy. I make no money.
Note: I put the rating as M on the story because it does imply something very mature. It can be left to the imagination, as I never explicitly state it, but I'm sure most would agree, as I, that it kind of implies non-con situations. If it is not your cup a tea, do not read it...I guess, though from this you could interpret it as somethng else. This is the first fic I'm posting on the internet. The first one I've actually completed. If you enjoy it, please do review, takes a few seconds, if you ddn't, well any critizism would be nice. I don't acutally write too often, but some things do inspire a spark in my creative juices. OK, long rant. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Note #2: I changed the rating to T. I really don't feel its strong enough to really warrant the M that I had originally put it at. I initially planned on this being only a one-shot, but my dear friend has been convincing me to continue, and since the muse for this story just won't leave me, I may eventualy write more (then the rating may need changing again, maybe not though). Ok well don't forget to REVIEW, otherwise I'll think you guys don't care for it and it may discourage me from writing more. Thanks! :)
The look they cast each other from afar is not unlike one they've ever given each other before. It lets the other know where the other one stands in the room. Not just geographically, of course, but generally in life. In their every day fucked up life. The elder shadows down the younger prodigal son, not his son, and reminds him that despite his wealth, his business, his genius, and his image, to him he's still the same over-grown child who he can bend with just the snap of the finger, or the stroke of….something else.
The younger's bleeding eyes foreshadow the night that rests upon them, for no matter how many one night stands, drunken hangovers, or featured playboy models he may lay with, in the end he always crawls back to the one person whom never seems to care whether he even comes or not. He never asks, never calls, at least not for those reasons. But then again he never has to. The younger fiend doesn't understand why he's so drawn to this madness. He doesn't claim any retribution but somehow-maybe it's the years of continual measure, of countless nights of waking up and not remembering how he got there or who he was even with, he thinks maybe he should.
Maybe it's just become habit; he started too young, he thinks, too young to realize the inappropriateness and the illegalities of it all. By now though, it doesn't make much difference. What's done is done. What's there to be fucked with, already has been, and it's already too fucked up to change.
All this crosses his mind in that one split second when their eyes meet, in that room where to everyone else all they see is all the money, all the power, all the carelessness. A life to admire, they believe. But in that very second, as in every second of every minute of his life for that matter, his eyes tell a different story. They project it on a big screen, theatre, no IMAX even, screaming, jolting, running, crying, and praying. No one ever sees his film, they just see the shiny cover, they don't know the real genre, or they real rating. They're not even close.
He smiles at the next uncaring, shallow face. They're all the same to him really, just a blur in his mind. They're all looking for the same thing, asking the same questions, wrong questions really, but if they did ask the right ones, would he even answer truthfully? Probably not, he thinks. If he could, he wouldn't wait for them to ask them, he'd just simply tell them. He'd tell everybody, and then this, he, his life, his mind and his sanity, would not be anywhere near where it was today.
If he could have spoken-not sure if he even ever wanted to- he would have done it twenty years ago, no twenty five years ago, or maybe even more. At this point he doesn't even remember, he thinks maybe it's because he doesn't really want to. He knows it.
He's a psychiatrist's dream.
Billionaire playboy, smart, attractive, gets any woman he wants, charming. He could convince a salesman to buy a batch of his own product. That's what the world uses to describe him, and on good days, those are the same adjectives he thinks for himself. On the bad days, however, most days, even the mornings or the nights of those "good days", he uses different words when thinking of himself. Coward, liar, damaged, head case, nymph, drunk, and those are just to name a few to go along with fucked up and the good ole crazy. Yeah, crazy is the perfect word for him. Only crazy would define someone who threads back, right back step for step, to place that hurts him most, every time. Not even the most daring of stunt men or athletes would get right back on the horse that knocked him over and broke their neck. But he does. He jumps right back on that horse, that dreaded horse who no one else wants to ride but who no one can take their eyes off. And each time he gets on that horse he falls right back off, and he breaks his neck, and his leg, and his shoulder, and just about every literal and metaphorical bone in his body. He's past the stage of paraplegic, and on to becoming a walking miracle, but right back on that horse he jumps….because he needs it.
He needs it like a drug addict needs another shot of heroin even knowing that the last one almost killed him. He knows no better. He can't recall anything better. Rehab is no option, and the worst part is that he's the best kind of drug addict. The family man with a wife and kids, a dog even, living in the big house, perfect yard where all the neighbors know him, moving on up in the office, the kind in which the wife, children, neighbors, boss, never suspect his hidden late night secret, because each morning he gets right back up again and puts a smile on his face and pretends nothing ever happened, and no one ever dented him; not a scratch on his armor.
These are the circling thoughts that go over his mind constantly. He's had many decades to think them through and get them right. He should write a book he thinks, a memoir maybe; a fable. At least that's what they will think when they read it. Because it couldn't possibly be possible, under all their watching eyes?! In this great country, this great tragedy? No of course not. And that's why he's yet to tell them, if he ever does. Let them keep their hero.
He's talking now to someone, an older woman. A friend of his mothers, he thinks. He remembers because he's always noted the imperfection of her nose surrounded by the faux pretenses of the rest of her body. She looks at him the way a grandmother sees her grandchildren. Her frozen eyes and frozen smile show a hint of compassion. She remembers him when he was young boy she says, she may have
said more but his mind is barely registering. He just laughs and gives her a witty reply. Young boy he thinks, but never innocent. Those eyes aren't meant for him.
The night is gearing towards the end and he finds himself growing anxious. The control he barely once had over himself is wearing thin now and he doesn't know whether he'll retire to his own home, to his own bed, surrounded by a pseudo sense of comfort, or if his drug will call out to him and he'll chase it like a dog released from its leash. He plans to do the former, he hopes it's the former, but he knows himself well enough that that's unlikely.
The dinner party is wearing thin of people too, and he finds it easy to catch the eyes of his brute. His eyes are always watching him, his mental prowl worst than any telepath. He calls on to him through his mind, or maybe it's his own mind thinking he is. At this point he's far too deep to even consider the difference. He looks away quickly, however, not wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, though inadvertently showing him just who subdued he's become.
The minutes tick by and world evolves around him. His best friend, his acquaintances, his assistant, have all come up to him and said their good-byes and he's replied without thinking. He's spoken to everyone, made small talk, after-all this party was thrown by his own company. Another one of those seasonal get-togethers done in order to make sure they're all still rubbing elbows with the right persons. Everyone is captivated, except the one person who captivates him the most, and yet it all perfectly makes sense.
He opens his already opened eyes to see everything clearly and he's come to realize that he's now the only one left in the room. He's surprised to find that he didn't even try to pretend by charming someone to go back home with him. No, this time he's all alone, and no one is left waiting for him. He checks his watch to find its way past midnight. Early for him, late for everyone else. He walks towards the exit knowing his driver would be there, every cell in his being is telling him to get in the car and go back home. Go back to his room, his bed, his pseudo comfort. He gets in the back of the car, sure of his intentions, sure that this time he would be strong, un-cowardly, and not give him. Today would be a "good day". The streets blur by unmoving his thoughts. His hands are balled in fists, and his jaw is clenched and tense. He's determined. Today will be a good day, he keeps repeating.
He looks ahead and finds his driver staring back at him.
"You ok, Mr. Stark?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Just drive me home please."
He's stern, he even remembers speaking the words out loud this time, and everyone knows saying things out loud makes things better, or so they say, but his heart is pounding, stronger than he's ever felt it before. Stronger than the last time, or the time before, stronger than the first, but not as strong as the next time he knows.
The gates are opening and he sees his house. His pseudo comfort. The car slowly drives up to the front of the house and comes to a halt. The driver is waiting patiently for him to exit so that he can go to his own home, his own comfort. Real this time. He steps out of the car and hears a soft bell-like rattle. He looks down at his hand and finds his keys in his hand shaking. He turns back, smiles at the driver and quickly closes the door. He's entering the house through the garage. He's taking every step towards the door that leads to the main house. His steps feel heavy, like quicksand, or like swimming against the current. He's reaching the door, only a few steps away. Just open the door, close it, and lock it til morning, he tells himself. And just as he's reaching for the handle, key in hand and ready for his good day, he turns, looks, yearns, and starts walking in the opposite direction.
This time his feet are almost flowing. Gliding across the floor and it feels like he's running. He doesn't know. He doesn't see. This is the time of the night that he usually no longer lives. He doesn't have to think about his actions, his body just moves, detached from his conscious mind. He's in a car again, but this time he's the one driving. The ignition turns, the car comes to life, and he's off. Again. For the hundredth, or thousandth, or millionth time. He's lost count. And it's better this way, to not know. It's happening again, and it will endlessly, until something or someone stops it. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know when or even if it will, but tonight he's off again, off to feed his predator.
Today would not be a good day.
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