"We are not soldiers. Remember I said that once before?" Stark laughs as he takes the bottle and tips it back, pours the decadent drink into his mouth and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. The alcohol doesn't even burn anymore as it passes through his throat, and he can't even feel the heat pool in his stomach any longer. It's all the same. It's always been the same; no matter how long he takes in between break-outs he always goes back, and it's always the same pattern.
"No. Soldiers die. Soldiers take orders, they obey. They follow their missions to a tee and they don't ask questions. Not asking questions! Can you imagine it?" He looks over and shakes his head. "No. You can't. You're a soldier, aren't you? You know what it's like to lose men. Good men. Honest men. Men who know what they're doing and what they want in life; men who, well, they aren't like me that's for sure." His laugh is dry this time as he takes another drink. "Maybe I should've learned. Should've let daddy tell me how to take orders better, should've gone to boot camp to learn about how to . . . what was it? Lay down on the wire and let the other guy crawl over me?" Another drink. By now the bottle is nearly gone, the dim light of the room passing clean through the brown glass.
"Nah. That's never been me. I've known men like that-I know you, don't I?" He smiles, running his free hand through his hair. "And I've known others. Good soldiers who rode with me in Iraq before the accident. Soldiers I sold my weapons to, soldiers who trusted me to do what was right. Should've thought better than that."
He empties the bottle and throws it to the pile with the others. The glass shatters on the hard flooring, joining the shattered remnants of the others, the brown meshing with the blue and green and red and purple. No, now he's just seeing things. Now he's just pretending to be the bottle, to be broken and in pieces with the others. To belong to a pile of scraps that no one wants but finds purpose in the community and company of others.
How like life, he thinks as he reaches beside him for another bottle.
"What I never told you, actually," he says after a long few moments, during which he's nearly drank a third of the-what is it, this time? Oh, vodka. The good stuff that Nat would likely have his balls in a jar for drinking but he's so far gone he couldn't give a shit. "What I never told you. It wasn't worth it. Steve, wherever the hell you are can you hear me?" He puts the bottle down to lean over the figure of the blonde, motionless man beside him. The red, white, and blue shield covers up the damage done to his body, covers up the split and ripped uniform, as fitting for this man as army fatigues. "Can you hear me?" He shouts it this time, leaning closer, as if somehow the man's eyes will open, will blink and groan and whine about how much of an idiot Tony was for waking him up from his nap.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty, you've done it before-you can do it again. For me." He's begging now. The great Tony Stark, Billionaire, Playboy, and grand Idiot is begging. He might as well sell his suit for scrap. When Steve doesn't move he chokes back a sob.
"It wasn't worth it, Steve. Why couldn't you not be a soldier for once? Why couldn't you just-fucking-stop. That's all I wanted." His voice cracks on the final word, and this time the bottle isn't empty when it drops and shatters on the ground, splattering vodka everywhere. "That's all I damn well wanted, Steve. Just stop. Just please, please Steve. Don't be a soldier. Don't be dead."
The man doesn't get up, but this isn't a fairy tale; Stark's not exactly a shining prince, and Steve's no princess. He's just a dead soldier in Tony's room, being wept over by an idiot wearing a tin can.
A/N: Andddd begin the tears. Title comes from the song "Bleed For Me" by Saliva, which I do not recommend listening to unless you like feels. As ever characters don't belong to me =]