Notes:
This fic is a suicide fic, so if you are easily triggered then i suggest you dont read this. This is mostly for me, Im just in a dark place right now and writing was a good place i could go for a while.
Tony Stark sat in his workshop, surrounded by the empty bottles of his once most expensive liquor. He sat staring at the blank wall, just contemplating life. After about 5 minutes of doing nothing but breathing he reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out his Stark Pistol that had been past down to him from his father. He sat it on the smooth table and pushed the handle of the gun just enough for it to spin.
"Sir, may i ask where your intentions lay with that gun?" JARVIS's voice rang out from the ceiling, or wherever the hell he had put the speakers.
"Well Jarv, if you really must know. Im gonna take this gun, put it in my mouth, and pull the trigger." Tony deadpanned.
"Sir, please tell me that this is some new joke that has yet to reach my interface…"
"Not this this time….not this time" Tony trailed off, grabbing the nearest bottle and taking a big swig.
"Sir, i will inform the Avengers, if you would please just but the gun back in the-"
"Jarv, you will not contact anyone. that is a direct order, not a fucking suggestion, if you do i swear i will tear apart every line of your code until you're nothing but a fucking British Siri!"
"As you wish sir, but i would please advise you to think this through-"
"MUTE"
He actually laughed out loud at that last one. Please think it though. What a crock of shit. Of course he had fucking thought it through. Its all he ever thought about anymore. How he would do it. What would become if all his belonging, of his company. He had thought of every detail, down to the letter. He had revised his will. Everything in the company went to pepper. All his suits except the one Rody used would Self detonate upon his death. He would leave the Tower to the Avengers, since they had all; including Banner, been using it as their main base of operations. He would deal with the reactor in his chest on his own.
He no longer had a reason to be here. There was no reason to stay. Pepper had left him, saying that 'She just couldn't deal with him putting his life in danger, it caused her to much pain'. The irony in that. Now that he was finally doing something good in his life, he had lost the only person who he had truly cared for and had cared for him in turn, that wasn't already dead.
Iron man. The one thing he had stuck around so long for, and now he wasn't needed. Rody had a suit, and he could take care of anything with the military. The Avengers could take care of anything big way better than he ever could. He had to face it, his very existence was a moot point. The only thing he had ever been good for was killing, and he just wasn't willing to but whatever tattered remains of him conscience through that.
He was just so tired. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, hell he couldn't even create! Everything he was, had amounted up to absolutely nothing.
He couldn't deal with the nightmares anymore. He didn't want to stay awake until his body shut down without his consent. All he wanted to do was close his fucking eyes without every memory of his torture, of falling coming to the forefront of him mind.
He was so tired of flinching away from any type of water, the memories of his lungs screaming for air, begging for some type of reprieve from the pain. He was so tired of being afraid of taking a fucking shower, and washing his own goddamn face because it made him want to curl up in a ball and never move, paralyzed by the memories of not being able to tell what was air and what was water, because in all reality it was all the same thing. Pain.
He didn't want to look into the face of everyone he knew and see the disappointment. And especially not the pity.
Even know he could still remember the first time Pepper had found him on the shower floor with water still pouring down on him. Paralyzed by memories are pure unfiltered fear when he had been stupid enough to think that it was a good idea to take a shower while having a fucking panic attack after waking up from a nightmare, thinking the cold water would help him wake up.
Shit had he been wrong.
Now he could think back on Natasha's report on him and laugh. He had become the one thing he and spent his entire life trying to avoid. He was exactly like his father.
At least he had the fucking decency to not have a fucking kid and pass down all his fucking mistakes.
Maybe he would see him in hell, and they could finally bond over something. Even if it was how fantastically they had fucking up their lives, and everyone's that god near them.
At least they had built some nice shit. Maybe that would be enough to get him to the pearly gates….he doubted it. He didn't really believe in that shit anyway. He was a man of science. Yet in his darkest hour her he was, making up excuses to try and make himself feel better.
But it didn't really matter now. It would all be over soon enough.
Picking up the gun he looked into the barrel. This is was his life would boil down to. Everything he had done, right or wrong. Everything he had built and accomplished would be boiled down into some front page article about the very gun that he held in his hands. Tony guessed it was fitting, guns was how he made a living, and now it would be was put it to a end.
You could call it poetic justice.
Sitting the gun down once more, he slowly rolled up his shirt, exposing the arc reactor. Clicking it out of place he looked at it for the last time. Its blue light hypnotizing. He could already start to feel the affects of his heart failing without it. He had had it for so long that his heart was now embarrassingly dependent on it to function.
He sat it down on the desk in front of him, reaching for the hammer that was laying just to the right of his left hand, he picked it up and proceeded to smash the reactor to bits. Watching the light flicker out and die away until there was nothing but scrap metal sitting on his desk.
He thought of just dying like this, letting the agony of the shrapnel tear through his veins and heart, while he went into cardiac arrest. It wouldn't be a pleasant way of dying, by he probably deserved it.
But he didn't, because he was a fucking coward. He was selfish and he just didn't give a fuck anymore.
He reached back for the gun, already feeling his hands shaking, and his arm feeling to heavy. He listed the gun and placed the barrel in his mouth. The taste of metal on his tongue something he had long since gotten use to because of the reactor.
He took a breath and closed his eyes.
And pulled the trigger.