Here Stands a Man

2

The bed's too big without Pepper. Too cold. So Tony sleeps downstairs in the lab, surrounded on all sides by glass and metal. He takes comfort in the hard lines, the glaring, clean-white lights. Takes comfort in the stoic, lifeless sentries that have become his silent family, the only conceivable remedy to his brokenness. If he throws himself into his work, if he takes his mind off the tape, maybe he can convince himself it was a nightmare. A horrible, vivid nightmare.

He doesn't realize what he's doing until he smashes his latest suit to pieces, blasting it into a heap of smoldering metal before stripping off his suit and beating his bare fists bloody on the jagged wreckage. Doesn't realize what he's doing until his eyes catch on the spot of vibrant red nestled in the black-burned silver and he pulls it out, his vision darkening around the edges as he stares at the star, the goddamn fucking star painted on the detached shoulder plate of the ruined suit, a near-perfect replica of the original star emblazoned in his parents' blood.

Disgusted, he throws the scrap of metal across the lab and shoves savagely at Butterfingers, who appears at his side proffering a tube of Neosporin and gauze. "Clean that up," he growls, and sits heavily on the stool next to his workbench. Picks up his tools.

And the cycle resets.