Disclaimer: Iron Man and all recognizable characters are property of Marvel and others...not me.
Written for the Pepperony100 challenge, here: pepperony100(dot)livejournal(dot)com
Title: Perchance to Dream
Prompt: #60 – Dream
Rating: K+/PG
Length: ~400 words
He doesn't dream very often.
This is a boon, or it would be if he were completely aware of the fact. Memories of his parents float behind his eyes; images of their deaths almost always follow afterward. Schematics for projects current and past, failed attempts and wild successes, though in his dreams the failures sometimes miraculously succeed and his greatest triumphs fall by the wayside, useless. The faces of countless women, lips parted in ecstasy, faces twisted with hate, all smooth skin and shining hair and heavy eyes.
His dreams have become more frequent since he got back.
He didn't dream when he was in the cave. There was hardly time for sleep, and when he did make the time for it, it was tense, dead sleep, always waiting for the sound of the door swinging open, listening for gunfire, expecting the feel of a knife on his throat. The closest he came to dreaming was when his head was under water and the car battery keeping him alive shorted out for half a second and everything went white. Someone was calling his name, but it wasn't real, and he was still alive and still in hell, so it had to be a dream.
He wonders, just before sleeping now, if he never managed to leave that place, if when he dreams of machine gun barrels against his temple and Yinsen bleeding out on a pile of munitions that it means their plan failed and he's still there and he's going to open his eyes and find a cave ceiling above his face. By the time he's drowsy enough to think like that, it's too late to wake himself and he has no choice but to sink back and wait for morning.
Sometimes, he dreams all in white and someone is calling him as the arc reactor in his chest fizzles and wavers between on and off. He dreams of long legs and auburn hair and freckles, of soft hands on his face as SHIELD agents lift him into an unmarked government helicopter. He dreams of waking in his own bed, missing his armor and having gained a few bandages. He dreams that his assistant is slumped in a chair beside him, picturesque even with the mascara streaks running from her eyes.
He smiles, thinking this is a dream he could get used to, and falls back into deep, untroubled sleep.
