Saving Grace → Stark

0.05 ; prologue

0.05 ; prologue

Sitting alone, he stretched out against the mould of the exceedingly large sofa, his back sinking into the furniture, tingling at the relaxation it brought to his muscles despite the foulness of the tense air. Tony's eyes scanned his surrounding scrutinizingly, gaze falling against the sprawling modern lounge room that was far larger than necessary.

He, with the help of a rather gifted and renowned interior designer, had designed every room in this mansion of a home. Each room designed to hold its fair share of secrets. It was a party house, it had been created for that very purpose. It was the home of some of the most perfunctory hedonism the modern world had known, young, illustrious women traveling from afar to get a taste of Tony Stark's world and to spend their inheritances on booze and sex.

Now, however, under the harshness of his midnight gaze, Tony only saw his home as a place of despicable loneliness.

It was always the same this time of year, those closest to Tony would watch as he drew himself in further, alienating himself from the world far beyond the depth and complexity of what he normally would. It was as if he was cursed, he would spend almost a month, his mood growing increasingly depressive as the days neared that faithful day when it all fell apart.

Only Rhodey truly had any idea of the causes of this change, whilst Pepper fretted, pressuring her boss to do something, anything more productive than drink his sorrows away, the darker skinned man knew. He wasn't an idiot and she had been his friend, too. He had loved her, too.

Drawing the glass of powerful scotch to his lips, Tony slugged the alcohol down his esophagus, the taste dim on his tongue and the burn faded from his throat. He'd been in a constant state of drunkenness since the beginning of November, not yet having sobered up. Half hung over and half drunk off his ass. It was the only way he had found to lessen the pain, but at the same time, it made everything worse. For his mind had learnt years ago to wander to the thought of her when drunk, it had been natural habit that whenever he was drunk he would run to her.

She had always made everything hurt less. Now, she only made things hurt more.

The alcohol was a method of cleaning the wound left by her, trying to wipe the infection that she'd left in his system in her wake from him. It never worked, not really. Especially on nights like these, when he was half-asleep but also not at all, mostly hung-over and slightly drunk still. When the cold November air, so crisp and sharp reminded him of the curve of her lips as she spat out an insult and the minty taste of her mouth when they kissed so passionately and full of life. Full of love.

There was an unorthodox pang in his chest, the centre of it and Tony glanced down at his t-shirt, eyes flickering worriedly down to where the glow of the Ark Reactor shone through his chest. He almost laughed at the sight. The metal mechanism keeping him alive ever still, even if he, at times, wished it didn't.

These times, however, he thought on the what if's and the maybe's and the could have been's. He thought endlessly about how it could have been different if she were still present in it, if she had not been torn from his arms like she was apart of him, because, in truth, she was.

He wondered what she would think of him now, with his alcoholism and his hedonism and his inability to ignore any attractive woman who wore a swishy skirt that ran up above the knee. She'd hate it, he knew she would. She'd scowl at him, tell him in that tone that she always got when she was annoyed by something or telling him off and he'd roll his eyes, call her an endearing name or even throw a flirtatious line into the conversation and she'd blush, frowning deeper. Half annoyed that he had made her feel flustered and half bashful.

As he pondered what she would think of the Iron Man and the Ark Reactor, he began to smile, that constipated, worried expression she constantly wore when he did something positively stupid taking form in his mind, each curve of her features, every crease in her furrowed brows as clear as if she were standing before him now. But he knew she would be proud, thrilled even, at what he'd done for the world. No matter his failings, and he had many, she had been the one constant, the one good he could've been able to do.

Imagining a world with her in it, with her smile that illuminated even the most darkest corners of the world, the darkest parts of himself and that clever mind that would mesh so readily into the twentieth century, he thought of a brighter Earth. Where evil was trumped by a girl with hair that was not red but strawberry coloured and with intuition that could see past even the most ingenious disguises. It hurt more than he could've ever imagined, more than the Ark Reactor in his chest and the the shrapnel that threatened to kill him did.

The thought of her burned more than any flame could, it ate at his flesh, boiling his blood until it gurgled and bubbled within the very tracks of his veins. His fist clenched around the glass in his hand, which he had rendered empty moments prior.

It infuriated him, thinking of her and what could've been, it was like a dream that he could never grasp again but still standing within his reach. If he just stretched his arms out further, jumped higher and strained a little more, he could have her again... But that was an illusion, a broken, evil illusion that tore at him, killing him in ways no villain ever could. And slowly, he was starting to hate her.

He despised her for how much he had come to rely on the broken and tattered memory of her, because if it hadn't had been for her, if she hadn't made him fall in love with her, with every smile and every laugh, if it wasn't for her he wouldn't hurt like this, he would've been stronger in the aftermath of his parents. He wouldn't have already been crumbling, so broken and destructible, so easily pulled apart by the death of the only family he had so soon before the only love he'd ever purely felt perished.

And he could see her standing there, mere feet in front of where he sat against the sofa. Her long, illustrious hair hanging down and around her shoulders in gentle curls that rose and fell around her face, glimmering in silky smooth wonder around her face. Those large emerald eyes shone down at him, looking at him as if she pitied him fot being the one who had lived.

God, he hated her. He loved her so dearly, so irrevocably, so endlessly and painfully that he hated her.

However, he couldn't help himself but reach for her, fingers feebly tugging through the air toward her hand. Yet, when he found at her, he felt nothing. The small chill in her hands was not there, nor did he feel her fingers curve upward into hers in the bemusing way that they always had when he clasped her hand in his. He felt his chest sank, weight pressing down upon the curve of his lower back as the hope in his eyes dissipated again as her lips curved upward, a small sad smile crossing her expression as her eyes fell from his shyly; guilitly.

She turned away, pulling her delicate, intangible hand from his desperately clammering grasp and disappearing from the harsh reality of truth, falling out and away from him once more. And she ignored him when he called her name, when he screamed it, tears streaming down his aging face as he begged her to come back to him. To hold him just one last name, to say his name as she pulled him into her chest, fingers knotting in his hair as she squeezed her eyes shut.

In a rage he threw his glass down, listening to it shatter and he heard it echo in his ears just as her scream had when he had watched her fall, body crumpling to the ground. He gripped at his head, trying to withhold a frustrated grunt as JARVIS spoke, in the familiar, safe and monotonous robotic voice, questioning him whether he needed it cleaned up.

But the only thing he needed cleaning was the mess of tangled anguish that was tethered to his very soul, which he was doomed to carry for the remainder of his years, for the only one capable of fixing him had caused him to shatter in the first place, and she was dead.

And nobody, not even the crazed genius of Tony Stark could bring back the dead. All that he could do now was watch on as he fell apart, as the memories of what could have been, replayed in his mind as they always did, however, ever more potent on the anniversary of her violent death.

» authors note ;

dedicated to taylor bc even i admit this is pretty damn sad

(this prologue is set before the events of iron man three fyi)