The stupid flip phone doesn't ring; he never calls the number saved there. Still, Tony keeps it nearby. Always.
On the rare occasions he makes it to his bed, he crashes into sleep, hand curled around the phone's weighty curves.
Shards of sunlight carve him into consciousness. Luxury sheets scrape his skin like sackcloth, because who knows what kind of bedding Natasha, Wanda, Clint, and Steve have?
He wakes, skin-hungry and alone—always so goddamned alone—
Language, Tony.
—wanting to feel anything besides barren and tired.
Dusty, unfurnished rooms lie caged beneath his brittle ribs, where once echoed bone-rattling thumps on his back; a secret language between an archer and a red-haired assassin; the stroke of a pencil wielded by a super soldier with artist's fingers, and laughter.
Tony touches himself when he has to. When biology betrays him.
(There's no one left to touch him.)
He fucks his fist to the cadence of vibranium smashing into his faceplate and his armor's arc reactor. Against his closed lids' red-gold darkness flash wintry eyes that hold a drop of green.
Phone over his heart.
White in his mind.
White on his stomach.
Salt at his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," on his parched lips.
A/N:
The title is borrowed from Poe's Haunted. Since this site doesn't let us post links, I can't direct link you. Please go find the song on Youtube, Spotify, or your music provider of choice, even if this ficlet didn't do it for you. Google the lyrics, too. Trust me.
Thank you for reading. Feedback's always welcome.
