There was a monument built of red and gold and he could see it even when he closed his eyes. It didn't matter if he was in the tower or the mansion or some young lover's apartment on the shady side of the city. It was there. Always lit up. Always staring. Always watching. Always beckoning.
The suit had been his saviour. A protection from bullets and a way out when he was taken. A way back to the life he'd always known after his eyes had been opened to everything that life meant. After he'd realized that he just couldn't keep doing it anymore. There was no way for him to do it. If there were going to be weapons, they were going to be personal. His kind of personal. And all that would exist of Stark Industries weaponry would be the suits that would soon litter his lab. He wasn't going to be risking innocent lives anymore.
And he'd nearly been killed for it. He'd watched one of his most trusted men rise against him in a suit of his own and try to do away with him. He had killed on of his best friends. And something like that just doesn't go away. Sure Tony could chalk it up to necessity all he wanted, but there was no just making it go away. He had killed. With his own hands.
Again.
At least when it came to Hammer and Ivan Vanko there hadn't been nearly as much...death. Not at the hand of the suit, at least. But he'd seen what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands. He'd watched his invention loaded with weapons he never would have touched otherwise. Weapons of war built onto a War Machine. The thought of it brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat and he had to force himself to swallow it down. His inventions could do so much damage. All of the work he had put into keeping the peace could be taken away in an instant just because the people he was supposed to rely on to keep his country safe could turn it in an instant to something to keep the people pushed down.
But at least it had only been one suit. They only had one. They didn't have the brains or the capabilities of making another and for that he was more than thankful. And at least he was who SHIELD came to for questions. He was the one asked to help save the world. A chance at redemption. A chance to try to take back all of the damage he'd done with his company and his weapons and his suit. A chance to change things.
A chance enough that instead of attacking a man who tried to kill him he offered a drink, a hope of peace. Of course it had been laced with a warning, he wouldn't watch his city drop. But he had tried. He had tried so hard to prevent it all. And then there were the explosions and the sky opened up and hell fell out. There was no stopping it. No forseable way of stopping it. But he had to try. And then there was the opening. There was the one missile. The one missile that could take out the entirety of Manhattan and a hole in the sky that led to god knows where and for the first time in his life he wished he was one to offer a prayer to some non-existent god.
He could remember stars. And a world he'd never seen or imagined. He could remember seeing more of those creatures, more of the aliens, and the missile hitting it's mark. He'd felt the heat from the blast before he started to fall. He knew he was gone. No chance to say goodbye despite how hard he'd tried. But at least he'd saved them all. He'd saved everyone. He'd made the sacrifice no one believed he could make. He'd risked it all for a world who would remember him for his weapons. But he knew...at least he knew.
But then he'd woken up on the pavement with the jolly green giant standing over him and he was breathing. Somehow. And he was going to have another chance and for a moment he was so sure, so convinced, that the suit was the best thing in the world. He could live to see the aftermath, he could live to be a hero. A real hero.
A real hero...
A real hero doesn't see darkness in his nightmares. He doesn't see creatures that doesn't exist and he most certainly doesn't wake up in cold sweats screaming at things that aren't there. He doesn't fear for his girlfriend or his home. He doesn't hide himself in a lab to build more than forty of the suits to protect himself from things only his nightmares bring back to life.
A real hero doesn't give his home address to terrorists and risk everything he loves. He doesn't watch his house fall or play dead or hide in a boy's garage. That's not what he was supposed to do. That's what a sick man with insomnia and fear does. Not a hero. He's no hero. He's never been a hero.
Because for the first time in his Iron Man career, he's not fighting for the world or the country. He's fighting for himself. He's fighting for a woman. He's trying to make sure she lives when he's the one who's supposed to die and he can't even guarantee that. He can't even keep her safe. What the fuck kind of hero is that?
And in the end he watches her fall.
And in the end he watches her burn.
He watches her rise from the ashes and take hold of her own life, take hold of her own survival. What kind of hero is he?
When the suits are gone and his bed is empty. When there's no one left to assure him that he's not done it all wrong. When Tony sits in bed at night counting the ceiling tiles for the four hundred and twelfth time, he realizes that he's no hero.
He's known it all along.
Just a man in a tin can running from the world, running from himself. And when you take away the tin can you just have a man who can't even find his place with himself.