Tony Stark wants fire, a blaze of curls burning with fierceness and freedom. He wants the fire that effortlessly courses through his veins and burns his heart, not the sunlight he finds so carefully colored and crafted. But the flames are always carefully pulled back, just out of his reach, and the softer rays are what are at his fingertips, so instead of the fire, he settles for the sunlight.
He wants oceans, depths of water he could drown in forever. He wants pools that see straight though his mind and seem to search his very soul, not the earth that sees straight through his mind and seems to fixate on his billions. But the seas are focused on schedules and memos, and the land is what he finds available, so instead of the ocean, what he gets is the earth with a few specks of moss.
He wants stilettos, clacks on tile that resonate with power. He wants control and confidence, not affected coyness and timidity. But the heels are constantly moving about chasing board members and going to meetings, and the softer shoe is what dances into the bar, so instead of stilettos, he brings back ballet flats of insipidity and meekness.
He wants the hands he's seen dance across the keyboard countless times, hands that speak volumes of care and contentment. He wants the hands that help him up off the floor and push him towards meetings, not the French manicure that holds only cocktails and jewelry, the nails that drum impatiently on the glass they hold. But those hands touched with work are holding his coffee and constantly pulling away from his grasp, and the painted nails are what are tugging playfully at his tie, so instead of the work, he finds himself with the manicure that only reminds him of the clacking of the keyboard.
He wants music, the tintinnabulation with an unintended melody. He wants the quiet music that peals with such joy after a small joke or a teasing comment, not the calculated twitter that is far too controlled to be genuine. But music always seems to be getting turned down around him (especially by her), and chirping is what he hears when he feels the absence of song most acutely, so instead of the music, he accepts the chirp.
He goes on.
But when he kisses the sunshine, he always keeps one eye open, one eye focused on the fire. When the sunshine sleeps, he waits in his sanctuary, listening intently for the sharp clacks that indicate the time for the ballet flats to leave. He turns up the music to try and drown out the remaining twitter in his ears.
The days pass and while he delights in the witty banter exchanged between him and his music, he still finds himself alone. So he allows himself the sunshine, a different ray for every different night.
He tells himself that it's enough.
But when he is in Afghanistan, it's the fire that keeps him warm, the water that keeps him satisfied, the power that keeps him driven, the music that keeps him inspired, and the work that keeps him alive.
It's the sunlight that burns his eyes and the earth that makes him yearn for home.
With his fire, he burns metal, forges it into power, cementing it with water. It's his fire that lifts him into the sky. So he can fly. So he can be found.
When he steps off the plane, he sees orbs of ocean rimmed with fire for him and he freezes, makes some joke about her missing her boss. She responds-what did she even say? And he barely hears because his thoughts are spinning and he can't focus because all that he knows is this: he wants fire.
And that's what he is going to get.
