I saw him that night, Tony Stark, with a bottle in his hand.
"Eh honey, what's cooking?" he asked me. He was most definitely drunk. He grabbed another bottle and twisted the cap off. I saw quickly what was happening.
His vitals were slowing down, his eyes almost...dead. Alcohol poisoning.
"Mr. Stark, put down the bottle" I said firmly. He gave no indication of hearing me and raised the bottle to his lips. The bottle that would surely kill him.
Not today. Not while I'm here. Rushing over to him I grabbed the bottle out of his hands. Except he didn't let go.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his words slurred.
"Saving your life" I said quietly. He was stronger than me and slowly, the bottle was getting closer and closer to his mouth.
I thought about my options. I couldn't control his mind, he was too drunk for that. There was no way to pour out the bottle. If I managed to get him to drop it, which was unlikely, the glass shards could seriously hurt him. I took the safest option.
I placed the bottle on my lips and chugged.
Let me say, for the record: vodka tastes awful.
Imagine a flame. Imagine someone took that flame and bottled it. Then mixed it with Tabasco sauce. And diluted that in car oil. Then slapped a brand label on it and sold it. There's vodka for ya.
Tony looked at me helplessly as I completely drained the bottle of its contents.
"Hey" he said. Before he fainted. On top of me.
It's not easy to lift a fully grown man but luckily, Bruce Banner happened to walk in right then.
"Oh my gosh" he said and he carried Tony to the medical center.
And somehow, at 2 in the morning, the news managed to reach each of the avengers in less than five minutes.
Thank you Jarvis.
"He'll be okay" said Dr. Banner. "If he had finished one more bottle, he would have died". Thanks for breaking it lightly.
"I want to make sure that this doesn't happen again. I'm serious, he came this close to death today." He held his fingers up an inch apart.
"He should be thankful that Mavis was there in time" said Clint Barton. I don't think I have ever seen him without a smile on his face but right now his expression was very grim.
I shrugged my shoulders, I really shouldn't be getting any thanks here.
"You save his life" said Natasha, surprised at my lack of response.
"It should have never come to that" I said sadly.
"You're right" broke in Steve Rogers, leader face on. Am I? I wanted to yell.
Steve Rogers, the greatest man ever seen; nobody should ever need anything more than him! I frowned inwardly. Hey calm down. The battle was roaring inside of me, ripping my mind to shreds.
"Get some sleep" Bruce said before exiting the room. And on that happy note...
I retreated to the piano, the only place I could truly unwind. I watched my fingers dance among the keys. I heard footsteps behind me. I assumed it was Bruce, hopefully he would get the message and leave me alone.
The piece was monotonic, expected of Bach. I felt that Bach helped me get my emotions under control.
That's all girls ever do! Cry and get emotional! This time my inner voice was my father. Shut up Dad. I finished playing and ended the piece on a major chord.
Minor piece, major ending. Because life always has a happy ending right? Sometimes I really want to slap Johann Sebastian Bach in the face. Other times I feel like shaking his hand and patting him on the back.
God, my life is so messed up. And it's just getting started.
"What piece is that" asked a voice from behind me. I jumped, grabbing the nearest object and holding it in front of me, threateningly. Unfortunately, that object happened to be a metronome. Turns out, it was Steve.
"Metronome?" he asked, with an eyebrow raised. I slowly lowered my arm.
"They didn't have that in your day?" I asked him. I threw it at the wall, taking pleasure in the way he jumped in surprise. I stared at the broken pieces on the floor. "Never liked metronomes. They're bossy and I end up just tuning them out" I shrugged.
"What piece was that" he repeated, regaining his composure. I shrugged.
"Bach, Fugue in C minor, Well-Tempered Klavier, 1722, BWV 847" I said in an emotionless tone. Thank you Bach, for helping me to hide my emotions under a blank slate. Lord knows how that'll come in handy in my life.
"I didn't know you played" he said, I tried my very hardest to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Trying to start a conversation?
"Now you do" I said shortly, closing the lid on the keys.
"I wanted to thank you personally, for saving Tony back there, we cannot work together without the whole team there". So that's how he saw it.
"No problem Mr. Rogers, though I would think it would simple enough to recruit another soldier for your 'team' here" I said coldly. He gave me a guilty look, which in turn made me feel guilty.
"Just Steve, I didn't mean it like that; I don't want him to die" he said quickly. Unfortunately, the thing about anger, the longer you bottle it up, the bigger it will come out.
"Of course you don't, Mr. Rogers." I said offhandedly, exiting the room.
"Just Steve, I honestly care about his well being!" he said and I turned around to face him.
"So that's just it? You want to make sure that your team can function, make sure every screw is finely tuned, every gear is smoothly turning. They mean nothing more to you?" he looked at me, flinching in pain at my words.
"I swear, I care about Tony-" I cut him off.
"Tony or the suit? I thought he was nothing? You know men that are worth ten of him, why not recruit them?" Steve looked I had just slapped him in the face.
"I didn't mean it" he said sadly.
"That's just it isn't it? You never mean it. If Tony really felt happy, he wouldn't be resorting to the bottle. If you were really his friend, you would know that he has nightmares every night. That every night, he dreams of his father telling him:'Steve Rogers would make a better son. Why can't you be like Captain America'. You would know that he likes his coffee black, with no sugar or cream. You would know that when he thinks the word father, he sees Edwin Jarvis. When he thinks the word mother, he sees Peggy Carter. You would know that every time he looks at you, he wants to hate you but he can't." I took a breath.
"Self destructive tendencies, Mr. Rogers. Natasha hit it right on the nail".
"She's not dead" he said, just before I was out of earshot.
"Who?" I asked, standing still.
"Peggy's not dead". I froze.
But I remember her body, lifeless and still. I remember at who's hand she died; for it was my own. She couldn't have survived.
I didn't respond, and made my way back to my room.
What have I done?