Disclaimer: I don't own Iron Man, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Vulnerable
A/N: Set during Iron Man 3, for the prompt "I can't even recall one of their names."
He sees their faces in the dark, just faint outlines at first, filled in by color the longer he watches them dart across the blackened room. A flash of fire red hair, the swift passing of a thin arrow, the unmistakable sight of a legendary hammer and patriotic shield.
His mind has captured those images, replaying them all like a film inside his head. But they all lead up to the same thing. That singular image of Pepper's face looking back at him within the helmet, the phone ringing and ringing though she does not pick up. That sinking feeling that he gets as he soars higher and higher, letting go, and then falling toward what should have been his death.
She was almost alone, he thinks, and looks to his right, makes out the faint outline of the woman sleeping on her side. She wouldn't look so peaceful if he were dead, and they both know it. She wouldn't go through with it, but Tony knows that, without him, she'd want to die, too.
They pass him by again, his head turning towards the nightstand as the green beast roars. It's nearly three, the clock reads, but there is no way to rid himself of his visions. He knows. He's tried everything.
He is Tony Stark, the man who has everything, and now nothing.
Not even the simple luxury of sleep.
Tony sees that familiar golden sheen, the swift fluttering of heavy green passing him by.
He hates those eyes, almost as much as he hates those damned monsters, wishes that they could have done something more about the hell he'd caused; the people he'd killed.
Wrapping the sheet around his shoulders, he shudders, tries to push it all away. But they just keep coming, keep trying to tear him out of the sky and kill him, shred the suit and pull him from it.
He shouldn't be afraid. They're gone now, he thinks, though they still run rampant about the room, and it's over. It's been over for more than a year now.
But he should remember, he thinks with a pang of guilt. At the very least he should remember who they were, who they are. Not just their faces, but their names.