His childhood is a sad one. From the time he emerged from the womb to when he would pass on, he was destined to lead a miserable existence, and he was fated to pull others down with him. His childhood was full of anger and empty promises, violence and the scent of whisky tainting the air. He starts drinking when he's ten years old, and no one stops him, because no one bothers to care. Mommy and Daddy are too busy with business to come home and visit their son and the nannies are mean, vicious; the beat him and tell him he's worthless, and when the words are drilled into his head long enough he begins to believe them.

First he turns to the bottles nestled in Daddy's alcohol cabinets. The taste is raw and bitter but he grows used to it as days go on and he grows into a teenager. Hormones raging, he throws parties and does all sorts of drugs and drinks until he blacks out, waking up with vomit dribbling down his chin next to girls whose names he doesn't even know.

He begins to pick himself up when he graduates high school early to move to MIT. No one congratulates him on admittance except for Obadiah Stane, since Mom and Dad were killed in a car accident. Stark Industries falls into Tony's hands and it will crumble without Obi helping him hold it up.

When the incident happened that gave him the arc reactor he had never been more scared in his life. The poking and prodding and pain still burn in the back of his mind today like a rash, and no matter how much aloe he slathers on it, it won't go away. It only seems to grow and mutate into something worse and worse.

He felt hope build up inside of him at building the first Iron Man suit. To think that his own hands were capable of building something that amazing sent a shiver of optimism through his bones, but he doesn't get his hopes up too much. He examines the process as he builds more Iron Man suits and with each successful model his confidence grew to almost uncontainable amounts.

When Obi betrayed him he felt his hope diminish slightly. He was reminded of the intentions most people hide from the public and his trust in others begins to flicker out once again. Pepper and Rhodey are the only ones that he holds an inkling of trust to and his worst fear is that the trust he has in them will one day be lost.

Then came the height of his career; along with his ego. Never before had it been so inflated, and with one pinprick he would deflate and fall, fall, fall, with no one to catch him. His fight with Vanko knocked him to his senses and he did not like it.

That was the height of his life and now he's watching everything crumble to dust, watching as it blows in the wind. His life has been nothing but ups and downs like a damn rollercoaster and it jars his mind and he's sick of it, sick of it all. He feels like he's Icarus, with his beautifully crafted wings he soars across the oceans.

It's not enough. He climbs towards the heavens, to the sun, and it begins to burn. The heat is too much and the wax supporting his wings begins to melt and he's beginning to fall, fall, fall.

He'll fall into the abyss of blackness and it will caress him and soothe him and tell him it's all right.

And the darkness is his greatest enemy yet a good ally.

Tony wakes up with a face full of concrete and his arm tingling. He's lying on his side in his basement and he's drenched in sweat from the dream he had, and his eyes search around the room for any threat, anything that's not supposed to be there. He realizes he shouldn't be there, but he vaguely remembers Loki promising to take him home, but he can't trust his judgment at the moment, because he feels like he's on the edge of a breakdown and he was about to fall right into one.

He scrambles up and staggers over to the desk containing his tools, the screws, drills, cords, wires, and his eyes struggle to pick out what he's searching for. He knows he shouldn't, but he's going to, he needs to, the desire rushes through his veins and it burns him. Tears threaten to fall and he lets them because honestly, he doesn't care anymore. Reliving his life like that, all in a dream was too much, and it sent him over the edge.

His hands clumsily search through the tools only to not find the thing he's looking for, and Tony lets out an angry growl. He rushes over to the drawers and throws them open, digging through their contents like a madman and making irritated noises when he can't find the one thing he desperately needs right now.

The room's starting to spin and Tony feels dizzy and he stops in the middle of the room, breathing in deeply, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He threads his fingers through his hair and sinks to the concrete floor, an angry sob yanked out of his chest. He can't be seen light this, in a pitiful ball of self-hatred and anger, but Tony doesn't bother moving from the spot he's made himself on the floor. Tears stain his cheeks and his eyes fall to the slashes on his wrists, barely healed. He begins to pick at the scabs and blood wells to the surface, and there's a voice screaming inside of him, Tony, you daft son of a bitch!

Tony grits his teeth together, tears dripping onto the concrete. He curls into a ball and wads his hair into his hands and fights the sobs bubbling in his chest and beginning to overflow from his throat out of his mouth. He wants someone to tell him it will all be okay, but at the same time, he doesn't want to hear all of that candy coated bullshit. It's not okay, and it will never be okay. Tony's life was a train wreck and it has been ever since he was born.

Stop wallowing in self-pity, Stark, a voice hisses in his mind. He begins to wonder if he's truly gone insane. All of these voices at once, talking in his head and having conversations with each other, it was extremely frightening. People can't help you until you learn to help yourself. Depressed or not, I don't give a flying fuck.

I can't just force myself to get up, he decides to reply, and he can feel anger from the other voice in his mind and he's starting to become tremendously upset with himself. Depression or whatever you wanna call it doesn't work like that. It has its own schedule, its own plans. It doesn't care about who you are or what you do, how much money you have or how great your life is.

If depression doesn't give two shits about you, then why are you letting it take over your life? If depression doesn't care about you, then don't care about depression.

It doesn't work like that—Tony stops when he realizes he's arguing with himself.

He turns away from the concrete to stare up at the ceiling, eyeing the fluorescent lights hanging above him. They shine brightly like they're the sun, and he's too close. His wings are melting and he's starting to fall.

For some reason, right now he feels like someone will catch him.