Everything I've done, everything I'll do today, everything I'll ever do, I do to protect this world. When I put on this armor, I took on more power than any human was ever intended to have... and maybe more responsibility than my heart can truly bear. But today... I will do my job. I will protect you. No matter what it takes...
"I like her." Friday chirps and a pink-wire hologram of a woman appears just after her comment is released, she falls in step with Tony and they walk, in unison, to Tony's study.
"Yeah, I like her too." Stark admits as he pulls his chair out and lets himself fall down into it. With his head rolled back and eyes closed, he lets out a very loose breath. Honestly, he wasn't sure how long he'd been on his feet. The last few were a blur of Accord sanctioned missions and while he still believed he was right; that he was doing what he was supposed to do-- he was thankful for his day off. Not only because he was able to stop, rest his body, but because he was finally able to seek out a woman he'd grown fairly obsessed with. "She's an alcoholic though -- with PTSD." Jessica Jones. He'd arrived, unannounced, at her door step swearing up and down that he was there only to warn her that she'd gained numerous government tails since snapping Kilgrave's neck. That wasn't entirely true. The world needed a new team. Someone to step into the spotlight The Avengers tainted with their mistakes, it was the only way the public would begin trusting and believing in them again. It was necessary for the future, for the war he could physically feel growing closer and closer with every day that passed -- and, honestly, it was necessary for the advanced people themselves. Right now, the majority of the world was terrified of them and, honestly, Tony couldn't blame them after just how childish and entitled The Avengers had acted -- himself included more often than not. If he was able to get someone -- or, better yet, a group of someones out there, saving people, standing up for truth, justice and all the things Captain America was meant to -- then he knew he could turn the tide.
There would always be people that feared what was bigger and stronger than they were. There would always be rallies and extremists that would work endlessly with hope they could one day wipe out all "advanced" humans.
He understood that but -- this couldn't be how the Superhero Era ended.
"Yeah, wouldn't want two superheroes with an alcoho--"
"I'm working on it." Tony cuts his AI off, eyes opening to find her where she had settled at the edge of his desk. Her legs were crossed and her hands already working over the screen of his computer, pulling up a list of other potential "superheroes" she'd found for him to look into, "Speaking of, I think I should probably go to a meeting tonight."
"Because it's Mother's Day?" Friday questions without glancing back at him.
His face fell immediately. He'd been going at it none-stop for so long --- how was it possible he was already in May? "That explains all the flowers and..." Stark pauses, "Did you?--?"
"Yes, I sent her the roses."
"Thank you." More than once, especially after everything that happened at the bunker, Tony considered going to see them himself. He bought the flowers, even drove himself all the way to the cemetery once. In his head he'd been ready, working over all the points he wanted to say-- all the things he needed them to hear, whether or not he believed they would from beyond the grave. He parked though, their plots in view... And, he just couldn't push himself to get out of the car. It was hard to say how long he'd been sitting there. He just watched the stones -- for hours, eyes focused on every shift in light as the sun moved through the sky and fell away. The Invincible Iron Man -- The Merchant of Death--- The Great Tony Stark, terrified stiff by a couple of gravestones and the absolute silence that sunk in around them. He knew what his Father would have said. After he was finished reprimanding him for even hoping he could have embraced some kind of solace in something as meaningless as a couple of buried, rotted corpses.
Howard would have been disappointed -- and frustrated by his Son's weakness.
"There is a group of --"
Ringgggggg.
"What the hell is that?" Though it was obviously a phone, Tony jumps up, alert -- hands closed into tight fists. His phones didn't ring. Friday screened and usually answered them. It takes him a moment to realize the sound was coming from the back -- and what was making it. Steve's phone. There's no thought -- the instant he realizes what was making that noise, he all but trips over himself to get to it. It was in approaching the device, it's illuminated screen -- and the shield accompanying it, that Tony felt himself hesitate.
Ringgggggg.
He just stares down at it, hand frozen where it hovered just an inch from it's plastic shell. He could text back, offer to wire him some money -- a new identity, something that would help but keep himself from actually speaking to his former idol.
Ringgggggg.
The phone's scooped up, flipped open and brought to his ear. He opens his mouth to speak but can't find it in him to say anything. Fortunately, Steve seems to know he's there, so, he starts in. Though this wasn't something he expected would ever come to pass. Honestly, he thought he'd live out the rest of his life without ever hearing -- or seeing Steve again and he was alrightwith that. Still, he expected more from the very first words he heard. There was a situation. He needed help. That was it. He wants to laugh, wants to let all the bitterness he'd been harboring since he picked himself up off the ground and watched the Avengejet Steve stole from him disappear into the distance. He wants to hang up, tell him to turn to his team -- the people that turned their back on him and left him alone to clean up.
Somehow, "Where do you want me to meet you?" is what makes it through his lips.
There was no discomfort, no pain -- no memory of nightmares that must have been playing behind his lids when he finally found consciousness. There was nothing. Just a calm and warm numbness. Selfishly, Tony embraces it. Slowly clearing vision focused on the ceiling over head as he sends signals of cooperation to each of his fingers and toes, with every submissive tap or wriggle, Tony begins to test himself. One of his arms shift cautiously and though Stark doesn't glance to watch it, he knows the muscles in his forearms were tensing -- straining to do something as simple as lift his hand into view. It creeps in, obstructing his perception and dark brown eyes stare up at it as if each of the digits and elevated knuckle was foreign to him. With the slightest tilt of his head, he begins to turn his hand, technological orbs -- aided by years of personal experimentation, digest and drink in every line, curve and dip of his palm-- before his fingers begin curling in. A tight, hard fist created. For whatever reason, this felt more natural -- more like him. A voice in the back of his mind swore that it was, that he was a fighter, built on bruised knuckles and bloodied hands. Brows crease in, he could see himself using them. Punching again and again and again until his hands wore the evidence of his brutality and violence, covered in his and his victim's blood -- cutting up, shredded. Tony turns his weapon though and he finds no evidence of the violence he was imagining.
His hands weren't just clean, they were perfect. There was absolutely no sign he'd ever been in a fight his entire life; no dark discolored bruises, up-ridged scars or open wounds. Angling his fist, he allows his fingers a moment to loosen, hand flattening where it hovered over his face -- promising the exact same thing. This was wrong. Not just because he knows he was meant to wear the scars of his battles, but because he had always had hard, calloused hands. While he could see the tension in the pads of his fingers and palm, the abrasions from handling his machinery and working endless hours in his "Church" were almost completely gone and healed.
Though they were far from a soft man's hands. They weren't his.
Carefully, still feeling weak -- numb, like his entire body had been in suspended animation for some time, Tony turns onto his side and rolls off the bed he was laid out across. It takes a moment, the press of his bare feet against the cold wooden flooring under them, but he does manage to push himself up and start moving. Inwardly, he knows he should be feeling something.. Anything more than he was. Panic was the most logical of emotions. He doesn't know where he is or what he'd doing here -- and his memory... He knows who he is, Anthony Edward Stark, born to Howard and M--.. no, born to S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Amanda Armstrong and H.Y.D.R.A. operative Jude.
Iron Man. Avenger. Billionaire -- playboy philanthropist.
He could remember the specifics, could even see himself as a child watching Howard in his lab; learning through a thirst to be just like him. He could see Maria, that warm smile on her face as she reached for him and ran a comforting hand across the apple of his cheek, then moving in to kiss it. More than those memories though, of his would-be parents. Tony could remember becoming an Avenger, fighting alongside his team, taking hit after hit for --- and then from them. Their downfall, their rise... And inevitable fall all over again. It was all there but his? It was missing and he knew it. There was cloud over -- time itself. He couldn't begin to comprehend how much he missing or why. So, he focuses forward -- on where his feet were taking him as electric, motion-detecting doors opened along with his stride and he unloaded out into a chrome hallway. It wasn't long before he found himself approaching a door with some of the answers he was looking for. It was almost entirely bare but there was a cradle in the middle of it, a number of machines hooked up to it -- computers wired through it's consoles. Glancing back over his shoulder, half expecting to find a small army of drones or HYDRA --- AIM agents ready to take him down... When he finds nothing, he continues toward the closest console. To his complete surprise, access was granted the instant he touched the technical keyboard. A HELLO, TONY STARK written in bright green letters across the monitor.
This probably should have deterred him. The curiosity in him though pushes on.
It doesn't take him long to find the weekly progress reports gathered on the comatose subject that once laid dormant in the cradle. Reading through the patient's body chemistry -- structure-- and the virus that had kept him alive to begin with... Tony begins to realize that it was his body that had been poked and prodded over the last few months.
Months.
Breath hitched in his throat, he turns the keyboard out to try to bring up it's more basic uses.
The internet answers all the questions he didn't even know he had in article after article surrounding The DEATH OF TONY STARK.
Honestly, he wasn't sure what was worse; finding out it was Carol Danvers that threw a fist so hard through his suit she'd killed him --- or, that it happened over three years ago.
---------------------
He must have watched the video -- paused, rewound, fast-forwarded and replayed it a thousand times and he still couldn't believe what he was seeing. He fell, ropes of blood spinning out with his body and she just stayed where she was in the air. Carol Danvers. One of his best friends in the whole world -- his teammate, just watched as he fell. Instinct forced his gaze away from the file to his own body, seeing the fight unfold helped to bring it back. He could remember the darkness after his suit's power source was obliterated, the gush of light after he was forced through metal and steel panels. Though the suit knew him, tried to adapt and pull away as quickly as it could, it hadn't been fast enough. Thousands of little pieces of of shrapnel tore and ripped at him, more than one cutting straight through his back and out the front of his chest. It was hot and rapid. Over in less than a second but, extremis kept him awake and aware for almost every stray strip of his suit as it ruptured and bled him out. He should have looked like Frankenstein's monster. Even with Extremis and the years between then and now, he should have been riddled in scars. Arms, legs and chest were clear though.
-- Or, almost clear. He'd noticed when tapping the monitor off and turning it into a mirror that his chest was still a reflection of his past. Most of the damage was gone, healed over and seemingly forgotten. A deep scar still ringed at the center of his chest though. Tony hated it. More than anything. It was a reminder of who he was, what happened to him in Afghanistan, what he was forced to endure afterwards. More than all that, it was ugly. A cut into the perfect lie he liked to pretend he and his body represented. He'd considered a number of outlets over the years, synthetic skin coming up more than once. Stark had even gone as far as to purchase a cradle for himself. He scanned his body, climbed inside, saw all the precautionary procedures through to their end but he could never find it in himself to finishthe job. Something always "came up" or distracted him away. Doc Samson, during the few "sessions" Tony forced on him after first injecting himself with extremis, had plenty of psychological reasons for this. He believed and shared freely, that Tony was scared of fixing himself. -- Of reverting back to who he was, the drunken, thoughtless fool that took everything and everyone in his life for granted. His scar, like the Iron Man were shields to protect him from that backwards spiral.
They were also walls. Reasons to keep his distance.
They-- weren't important. The last three years were important.
Knocking on the screen again, he brings it back to life and starts to searching for his friends -- family. Fingers hesitate over the technological keyboard, Amanda caught in the search bar. Stark got halfway through her last name before he backslid over it and put feelers out for Riri instead. Nothing.
Searching... Iron Man....
Links found.
Most recent; THE INFAMOUS IRON MAN terrorizes another of Hydra's "RECONDITIONING CAMPS".
"Hydra..."
How had it gotten this bad? -- How had the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D. -- the general public let this happen?
They wouldn't have. They would have stood up against the mere inclination of Hydra's tyranny and they would have won. Thor, Carol, Steve-- they would have torn the organization to pieces. Nothing but death would have subdued them. Again, a sick feeling begins to build in the pit of his stomach and his fingers ghost over the keyboard.
"Steve" written in sharp, black letters. Space. R... -- Backslide.
He was dead. That was the only explanation.
The doors behind him roll open and Tony turns immediately, hands lifting from his sides -- pulling into tight, threatening fists -- ready to throw himself at whatever woke him up and left him to stew in the realizations of this new world. He's stopped though when his suit stood before him. The new paint job, the cloak draped over it's head and down it's shoulders. It was the same one from the news, the one tearing through Hydra facilities and freeing prisoners. Even before he spoke, Tony knew it was him. No one else would steal his armor and top it in such a way. Stark wants to be mad. He wants to launch at Doom, to demand he take the armor off -- that it didn't belong to him, that he didn't deserve to wear it. That's what he would have said before everything they'd gone through with Whitney ... And then the Inhumans and "Team Danvers". He hated to admit it, but apart of him had grown used to -- almost comfortable in Victor's company. It didn't help of course, that the world was once again turning on him, all his friends dropping like flies ---Banner...
Rhodes....
Victor was the only one truly on his side.
"Again." Tony starts, watching him approach. "That might be a bit more meaningful if you hadn't tried to kill me in Camelot and then leave me there."
There's a moment of silence, Tony's eyes obvious in the way they swept Victor's armored form, "Why'd you take my suit? I know it's mine. You switched a few things up but... That's my work." Honestly, there was no anger in his question, his hands were even beginning to relax -- tension in his forearms giving. It was curiosity. Victor Von Doom was one of the most brilliant men on Earth. -- Maybe throughout the galaxy. The Iron Man wasn't new anymore. It was still lightyears ahead of most, but not Doom. If he wanted to replicate it, build a suit for himself; he could have. He'd taken the time though to visit one of Tony's garages, to slip through it's security and pick through the various marks displayed. A feat much more impressive had Tony been conscious at the time -- but not easy by any means.
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."
Of all the places he wanted to be and should have been, he was here; smiling, putting on his best billion dollar performance for the crowd of people he used to fit in among. It was a good cause. Friday reminded him of that over a thousand times on the way over. Not only would he be helping his city's youth but his presence-- the very public way he presented himself to the world's reporters and influential media outlets, it could be the turning point his teammates need to reclaim their good names. Though he told himself and anyone that listened that he didn't care what happened to Captain America and his band of misfits, that they'd made their beds and he'd leave them to lay in it. He was here, whispering about favors and promises into all the right ears. As angry as Tony was, as much as he wanted to hurt them... All for their incessant stupidity and blind faith, he didn't want them dead. He woke up every morning terrified that he'd turn on the TV and find their bloodied bodies on display across numerous news stations. That was what the future held for them if they kept on like they were and Tony disappeared like he wanted to.
People, these people that he surrounds himself with, that were all grins and playful comments, they were terrified and as much as he hated to admit it? They had every right to be. Not just of Steve and his pigheaded crusade but of all of them. Himself included. The Avengers, all these new "Inhumans" popping across the globe and showcasing their abilities; they meant well. Tony knew that better than anyone but so did the Government. As hard as it was to wrap one's mind around; it was true. The senate, the military, even Ross -- they weren't acting out of pure hatred or need to weaponize the super-humans falling into their laps. They were acting in response to the people they were appointed to protect, to the a quick spreading fear blowing an airport to hell did nothing to dampen.
"I hear you and... You know I would do anything for you, Tony." Senator Joseph Philberry spoke, his eyes saddened as he looks back at Stark and branches a hand out to catch him by the shoulder. If it had been anyone else, Tony should have stiffened or strained to keep his expression steady. He knew Joe though, Howard and Maria had been good friends with him. After they died, he'd tried to help ease Tony into the world they'd left behind, even went as far as to come back to Stark Industries that first summer to make sure Tony was mastering the ropes his Father left him. "But I don't know what you think I can do. You're the one with the power to change things. They're just whispers but I know you've spoken to the President about stepping up as Secretary of Defense."
That was all it took to bring his smile down.
Yes, the President had asked to meet with him and suggested he move in for the position since Ross was considering a career change and yes, he knew he'd get it. There was no fear of rejection and it would make his life as Iron Man easier. He could go back to the way things were. He could move on any threat he wanted without the push and pull of a democracy at his back. Tony could save his friends from the prosecution they'd be up against once they were finally caught again.
More important though, he could prepare the world for what he knew was coming.
Stark didn't want to though. It wasn't just that he was tired or angry, wasn't just his fear either; of starting something new after the colossal mistake that was Ultron. It was what being Secretary of Defense really meant. He'd backslide, he'd once again become the Merchant of Death. King of a sweltering Weapons Industry. He leaned on the Iron Man because, though it was weaponized and packed to it's nines with missiles and other deadly creations - it was the shield he'd first described it as. Iron Man wasn't a War Machine. It wasn't built to hurt people, it was built to save lives.
