A/N: Trying to get some crap out of my head, so I wrote this. (P.S., do you realize how difficult it is to write an Iron Man story when you have difficulties with the name Tony?)
There's a litany in his head, and no matter what he does, it's always there - I want this to end I want this to end I want this to end - a nightmare background rhythm to his life. No matter what he does; no matter who he fucks or how much he drinks, it's still there. Just end me end me end me end me end me, constantly, and there's nothing he can do about it.
He's started to listen to it.
At one point, he thought about telling the doctor - if anyone understands what it's like to crave a noose around your own neck, it's Bruce - but every time he tries to speak about it, his shame at his own weakness chokes him to silence, and he sinks back into the familiarity of his masks.
Those same masks have risen up to smother him, he knows, but there's absolutely nothing he can do about it, not now.
He's tired - of the litany, certainly, but also of the way he can't trust himself with anything sharp or explosive anymore. He's tired of the take that screwdriver and jam it into your skull, cut your throat with that utility knife, if you detonate that it won't even damage the rest of this room, it'll just take you out. It's all he can concentrate on now, and sometimes it gets more creative than he's ever wanted to be when thinking about ending his worthless life.
At no point has it occurred to him to tell the soldier; he knows there's no way Steve would understand. How could he explain himself, when he can't even seem to find the words to quantify the freezing feeling in his core? Still, he wishes the man would notice. Hell, he wishes anyone would notice; but no one ever does.
That's because you're not worth their time. The litany has been getting nastier, digging its claws into him. It knows where his weakest, softest spots are. After all, it's his own despair.
And it might make him a weak man, but he's finally going to give in to it.
That's why he's sitting in his bedroom with the door locked at four in the morning. It's why there's an old but well-sharpened straight razor lying on the bed beside him, within easy reach of his right hand; and it's why he's deactivated JARVIS for the next two hours, to give himself time to bleed out.
He finds, here at the end, that all he wants is for someone to hold him.
For a moment he closes his brown eyes, trembling with that desire. Someone to at least hold his hand as he jumps into the cold abyss he's been skirting all his life? Is that really so much to ask? He wants it so badly it makes his heart ache, but there's nothing to be done about it - except to make this final leap.
He takes the razor in a right hand that's only mildly shaky and lifts it to his throat, just over where his pulse beats beneath the skin. Because he's not fucking around; he wants it over, and quickly.
Just enough pressure, and the razor parts skin and muscle, slicing into his jugular like it's not even there. Blood sprays from his throat. It's like opening a release valve to let out all the despair; or at least it gives him something else to concentrate on. At last...
Dropping the blade, he sinks back onto the bed with a soft groan. Time seems to slow, as the cold of death draws close around him. But it's comforting, so comforting...
He takes a breath.
He feels tears trickle from his eyes, and for once does not hate himself for it. There are, after all, indulgences allowed the dying.
He takes another breath.
Everything is fading, even the litany, and he feels more at peace than he has in his entire life. It feels like he's floating, awash in a sea of...cool, of blue.
He takes a shallower breath.
And at last, the litany...stops.