Hey guys! Second instalment less than 24 hours later:) Who would you like to see next?
It was live on television when Natasha Romanov first witnessed the horrific destruction and collapse of the Stark Malibu mansion.
It had been somewhere mid-afternoon over in France. The sun had risen and glowed bright and golden in all its glory, exposing itself from within the soft, pale clouds it had hidden behind, resting upon the still, calm blue sky. She was leaving the beautiful city of Paris after a successful operation, which took a surprisingly minimal amount of time to complete and fulfil all the required necessities in relativity to gaining the essential information.
She had strolled down the street, walking in a strange sense of relaxation she had not experienced in some time. Her light smile enlightened her face as her scarlet curls framed her defined cheekbones and the rays of the sun reflected of her tanned skin. She was heading towards the airport only metres away, and had insisted on walking the short main road between the parking area and the entrance- as she wished to have a moment of tranquillity- certainly not in a vulnerable manner, but in one which she was able to enjoy her magnificent serene surroundings for once. All of her baggage was sent ahead of her, so she had the moment to herself.
It was all fine. Everything was perfect- at least, as much as it could be for someone like her.
That was until she stepped passed the electronics store with the large plasma television plastered behind the thin layer of clear glass. There had been a small crowd building up, and in order to get past she was forced to tread through the small hoard of people. Her intention was to walk by the scene, completely ignorant of what the site of fascination was.
But her eyes had trailed over the screen as she peaked over the shoulders of a tall, ginger man.
And suddenly, everything wasn't okay.
She pushed through the people, ignoring the murmurs and huffs from lips smeared with too much lipstick or not enough. Her calm demeanour was beginning to crumble, piece by piece. And as she reached the front, gaining a full high-definition view of the screen, the peace which she had built up within her in those few moments, quickly collapsed in the same manner as the asphalt and concrete walls of Tony's million-dollar home- sinking deep into the never ending blue ocean.
Her eyes stuck to the screen at their own accord, her lips parting slightly as she attempted to draw in a single breath, somehow unable to collect that one part of her that was still calm as another missile collided violently with another pristine white wall, further bringing down the once beautiful structure. Each piece of the mansion station on the high cliff had tumbled and tumbled before crashing into now violently raging waters with massive spray of armies of clear, crystal drops.
Her heart crashed against the bones of her ribs with such ferocity it caused the chain reaction of the subtle tremble of her lip. She bit her tongue between her teeth sharply as media helicopters closed in on the tragedy of scene to stop herself from reacted rashly and throwing something so heavy and with enough strength to break and shatter both layers of glass and splinter the crude images before her.
She had known Anthony Edward Stark to know that he was undoubtedly one of the world's smartest men, a true genius. She had known Ironman long enough to know that he was one of earth's courageous, valiant protectors. She had known Stark as the son of his father, a billionaire and heir to his own industries. She had known Tony Stark as an arrogant, egotistical playboy.
But she knew Tony as a friend.
Despite their dysfunctional and estranged relationship, it was still a friendship worth fighting for- regardless of their slight lack of trust and issues towards and with each other. The Tony the media knew wasn't the Tony she knew. He wasn't the same Tony who invited them to stay at Stark Tower between missions or when they just needed to. The same Stark who made sure that whenever they were all in the same place that they would watch movies from the 1940s or make Clint amazingly advanced explosive arrows, or revolutionise her weapons to an extent further than SHIELD could ever dream to.
And now there was a live news-reporter with dyed strawberry blonde hair and fake too-big lips in a tight blazer telling her that Tony was probably dead. And strangely enough, she felt more anger towards the ignorant, fake reporter with too much makeup and eyes darkened with a hideous shade of pink eyeliner for even suggesting something like that.
For even implying it.
She one of her skilled, manicured hands ball up into a tight, sharp fist with enough strength to make pins and needles crawl up her limbs. She felt her toes curl tartly in her flats and tasted a sour, bitter flavour at the back of her throat. She blinked the sudden wetness collecting behind her dark eyelashes and closed her eyes for a second- blocking out the reporter's too high voice and the outraged and disbelieving murmurs of the crowd surrounding her.
Tony Stark might be dead, the woman had said. She might as well have announced that he had taken his own life, or all the bloody difference it would have made. She inhaled and exhaled and attempted to force the immediate trembling that had begun in her hands and escalated to her knees. Funny, she hadn't even realised she was shaking.
She peeled her eyelids open again and felt another coarse of what she had realised was despise of all things, aimed towards the woman who has trying too hard and making it easy enough for Natasha to hate her enough for speaking and implying such ridiculous things, as if she had been the one to personally send the explosives crashing into Tony's home.
That fake of a woman had no right saying those things, that Tony was dead. Because he wasn't.
He couldn't be.
The man had survived flying into space to let off and explosive and destroy an alien organisation base whilst saving millions of people. In a suit which was collapsing and breaking apart on him as he flew higher with a minimal amount of oxygen. Then he had basically stopped breathing.
Natasha pushed away the sudden emotion of desperation sliding along her skin and numbing her mind and glazing over her orbs. There was only wreckage now. Nothing more than people attempting to put out the flames liking the concrete mess that was once Tony's home. Nothing more than people filled with an unimaginable desperation and a growing despondency as they anxiously searched the debris for their fallen hero.
A hero Natasha knew they would probably not find.
The anger subsided slightly, yet despite all manners of logic, she still could not bring herself to heave away the hate and other strong emotions concerning the news reporter. That woman, despite only 'doing her job' had no right. There was just no way Tony Stark was dead.
A sensation of finality tugged away all the negatively relating feelings coursing harshly within her. She was going to find out what had happened. And she was going to kick Tony's ass for this storm when she found him too.
With that, she left the scene and the distraught people who knew Tony and despite not ever personally seeing him, or meeting him, still looked up to him. They would do nothing, she knew. They would accept this, and she would not. She was Tony's friend, and he was going to have to construct one hell of an explanation for this whole mess.
As she left for the airport, she didn't even notice the drop of blood which had trailed down her fingers and struck the somewhat dirty pavement from pressing her nails against her palm so hard in a surreal sense of- despite not realising it- grief induced anxiety.
That didn't make him dead though. That didn't make Tony dead.
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