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SAMPLE #2
Tony hadn't had a bad life. He knew it.
He had great friends, all the money in the world, a mind most would-- and have tried to kill for. Tony had a good life. He always had. Fortune followed him wherever he went. Everything he thought, everything he touched turned to solid gold beneath his fingertips and the world took a knee in response. They propping him up on a pedestal and bathed him in the warmth of a spotlight. For the first time in a long time though, he was actually feeling it. Not just happiness, but peace of mind. His friends; Pepper, Rhodey and Happy, they did their best to look out for him, to protect and love him but, there was no denying there was something missing there. With them.
Even after he gave into his desire to be with Pepper, to give himself over and devote his body to her and her alone, there was a strain. It wasn't her fault. The push and pull that was there after every genuine smile they shared. It was his. He wasn't capable of being what she wanted, of buckling down -- enjoying the fruits of his labor-filled life and settling. They weren't programmed the same way. She hadn't been trained her entire life for something -- bigger than herself. To a point, she understood his struggle, the reasons he couldn't just sit back and let the world fall in his absence-- or, better yet, leave it to the hands he'd already equipped and promised safe havens to. It was true; he was no super soldier or gammafied incredible Hulk. He was nothingcompared to the people he surrounded himself with now. Just a man in a can beside a a thunder-wielding God. Where they were strong, fast and able; Tony was weak and soft. He wasn't one of them but he fit among them. He felt at home in their presence in a way he'd never experienced before. Not even with his own family.
All his life, he was an outcast. A man looking in on something he couldn't truly comprehend. With the Avengers, he wasn't just accepted or utilized, he belonged. Though there were some differences, at the end of the day; they saw the world the same way he did. They thought the same way he did.
They were the family he never thought he'd have. The family he never thought was possible.
So--... Why couldn't he work?
The last time he'd gotten in a rut like this one, it was right after Jarvis died. He remembered the night it happened; couldn't remember for the life of him what he was working on, but he'd been convinced it would change the world. That this thing would bring war to a screeching stop and terrorists to a pleading mess on the ground. He'd heard a crash in another room and assumed that someone had dropped something. That it would be cleaned up, that he wouldn't even notice -- whatever it was, was gone. He went back to working, nearly finished his project when one of the maids started screaming for help. Barefoot, smeared in grease-- his goggles propped up on top of his head, Tony came whirling up the stairs to find Jarvis laid out on the floor and Linda, one of the mansion's caretakers, hurrying collect a phone and call 9-1-1. He froze. Just watching the scene for a weak moment before he collapsed at the old man's side to try to wake him. Tony shook at his shoulders and pleaded -- but he was gone. From the look of him, he'd been gone a while. He'd fallen. Jarvis hit the ground and he was laying there, alone, for hours before anyone found him.
Tony turned away from the company after that. Left his shop empty for years-- his attention suddenly devoted to the party life he'd been missing out on, as well as the women and the alcohol that came with it.
He'd always had the reputation as a playboy and a drunkard but it wasn't until Jarvis died that he really earned it. Looking back, it was too easy to see Obadiah's hand on his back; guiding him toward every drink and new distraction while he took the reigns of the company. He'd been so young--- so blind not to see the back and forth with Stane. He couldn't count the number of times the elder man had served him a drink, only to turn back around and claim that maybe Tony had a problem with alcohol. That Howard had handled the balance between work and fun so much better than he had. That Howard had done everything better. As much as he'd learned, as clear as his head currently was, that life-long drive to the best, to hit the roof--- for Howard, it was still there.
It wasn't what caught him by the lip now though.
Tony was already so far off the reservation of what he thought Howard wanted from him-- and he'd accepted it.
No. He was stuck and something else was the cause. He needed to knock his brain free, needed to step away from his shop and focus on something else. First first thought was the kitchen. The Avengers had been living with him for a little less than a year now and no one put their mugs -- plates or utensils back where they belonged. Every morning when he went to reach for one, he felt his teeth set on edge. Tony's stopped on his way there though, eyes shifting back to the piano where it sat, settled in it's own corner. Eyes shift back toward the stairs he'd just walked up and to the Avengers' sleeping quarters. It was late. Nearly three in the morning. While they were all battle-scorn and damaged, as he was, they did traditionally sleep through the night. Even Banner laid his head down at promptly nine o'clock most nights. He was alone. Safe in the idea of his isolation, Tony moves toward the instrument. One wouldn't know it by looking at it-- having taken such good care of it over the years; it was old. Older than him-- it belonged to his Mother.
That was usually the main reason he kept his distance from it.
It was nearly impossible, focusing on it-- it's pristine keys, without seeing her ghost -- those thin, soft fingers working over each of them.
With some hesitation, Tony takes a seat before it and lets one of his hands; those legendary callous-ridden fingers brush across the sharp board. There was no ignoring the contrast between the image in his mind and the one actuallyset before him. Maria's hands had been seemingly untarnished, the stretch of his fingers smooth -- her nails painted and finished where... Tony's wore the brutality of the world. His knuckles bruised, a bandage wrapped around his wrist, up his palm and around the back of his hand. Instinct takes over. Both hands lift to the board and begin to move across the keys with practiced ease. Though his fingers don't produce a melody anyone knew-- a piece of it, it's undertones were borrowed from one of his Mother's favorites "Try to Remember".
He was halfway through the piece when he felt her enter and, to his surprise, it doesn't stop him. He doesn't go rigid -- doesn't even flinch. His body of iron stays relaxed. The tempo does pick up just slightly though before he expertly switches songs completely and opens his mouth to inform her that he knew who and where she was-- without glancing back, "Pretty eyes..." He sing-songs, though playful-- he kept his tone light, doing the melody the justice it deserved with his voice, "Pirate smile, you'll beat down a Hydra maaann..." One, two, three, "Ballerina-aaa."
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