Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are Christmas songs playing on the gramophone, the music echoing down empty hallways.

The staff’s gone – Tony gave them Christmas off. Those who didn’t think it was a good idea to leave, he fired.

He’s standing in his father’s office. There are boxes on the floor and desks, half-packed, ready to be shipped out and stored. Obadiah’s been going over the contents of this room with a small army of assistants, in the aftermath of…

Tony swallows. He can think about it. Hell, he can talk about it, too. It’s not like it’s going to kill him.

The irony burns, but not as badly as the scotch he poured himself a while ago. There’s no one left to tell him what he can or cannot do, whether it’s getting stupidly drunk on his father’s expensive liquor on Christmas Eve or pushing everyone away so soon after his parents’ deaths.

“They’re dead,” Tony says, because he can. He’s proving a point. “They’re not coming back. Ever.”

He watched them being interred. Shook hands and accepted murmured sympathies from people who don’t matter to him.

People who probably mattered more to his dad than Tony ever did.

There needs to be more alcohol, he decides. Way more. The large house is locked up, there’s no one coming in – not even Obie, although the man kept telling Tony that they could spend Christmas together. Tony wasn’t going to accept charity, so he put his foot down, telling Obie to have a great holiday and that they would talk business after New Year’s.

Tony’s eyes roam over the liquor cabinet, trying to decide what he wants. Then again, he can have it all, so why choose? He starts picking up bottles and soon decides he can’t carry them all, so he picks up one of the boxes instead, turns it around to make its contents fall out on the desk and then crams as many bottles as he can into the cardboard box before worming his fingers beneath it and gingerly carrying it down to his workshop.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he calls out when he enters.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” the faltering voice replies, and Tony grins. He’s been tinkering all week, and now that he has the house to himself, he can dig into the walls, do the wiring, and see whether his AI is actually working or not.

A week ago, his project was still confined to his own room and workshop. Well, his father would have probably been furious if he knew that Tony had actually wired an Artificial Intelligence from his workshop to his room, but what his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Now, though, the house was his. He was the last Stark standing.

His hand finds a bottle and a glass, filling the crystal container to the brim. He has to sip carefully, to not spill any on the floor, but he manages alright and feels the tell-tale buzz starting, numbing the anxiousness he’s been feeling ever since he got the news.

“Let’s get to work,” Tony decides. “It’s time you get to see the world outside this workshop, J.”

“I have also seen your room, sir. It is a very nice room,” the AI responds. Still not as smooth as Tony wants, small gaps in between the words, but it will get better. So far, the coding is a masterpiece, if he does say so himself, and J.A.R.V.I.S. is growing more intelligent and responsive each day. A few years from now…

Tony loses himself in that thought for a moment. Last week, he hadn’t really thought about what his future would bring. Maybe working for Stark Industries, on some challenging-enough project. It wasn’t as if he had been groomed to take control of the company in the foreseeable future or anything. Now, it was only a matter of time, paper work, and sealing the deal.

He decides to let that thought go for now, and instead moves over to a computer terminal, house blueprints thrown across the table next to it. Tony has all of Christmas break to get this done. He has nothing but time.

As he makes calculations about sensor placement, wire lengths and speaker adjustments, Tony keeps drinking steadily. It isn’t as if his mind isn’t occupied, but drinking has become an obsession by now, a backdoor he can utilize at will, and before he notices, he can’t actually stand straight without swaying.

“Sir, perhaps you should eat? There is food upstairs,” J.A.R.V.I.S. suggests.

“You don’t know that yet,” Tony points out.

“You said so, earlier.”

“Yeah, but what if I lied? You don’t know there’s food. You don’t know anything,” Tony mumbles. “I’ll fix that. Everyone should be able to learn, and explore, and I’ll make sure you get to do that, okay, J?”

“That sounds very nice, sir.”

Tony nods and makes his way towards the table where he left the box full of liquor. He tries to hold onto his glass as he leans onto any sturdy object for support, but in the end he stumbles and drops the glass, shattering it all over the floor.

“Sir, I have calculated the limit of alcohol consumption for a person of your age, weight and condition. I believe you have crossed that limit.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says – or slurs. Come to think of it, he doesn’t want to stop. He knows he’s had too much, that he hasn’t eaten, and that this will end badly with no one else in the house; if he gets alcohol poisoning or something like that, there’s no one who can help him. J.A.R.V.I.S. isn’t connected enough to make a phone call, and…

“Dummy, clean up!” Tony calls out instead, and his robot moves from the far corner where Tony had him sorting out tools for later. Dummy turns his camera eye towards Tony, snapping his claws, then looks at the floor and the mess of shattered glass.

The bot heads out towards a closet while Tony resolutely selects another bottle, the weight of it slipping from his fingers once before he manages to carefully lift it out of the cardboard box and onto the table, then wonders if he has a glass or some kind of mug down here. From the side, he hears a sound, and J.A.R.V.I.S. makes a sound equivalent to clearing his throat.

“Sir, could you assist DUM-E?”

Tony looks, and the bot is trying to open the closet door without success. He rolls his eyes and makes his way over, leaning heavily on Dummy’s arm as he wrenches the door open. A broom falls out and smacks Tony in the face, making him start. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You always have to do it yourself, don’t you?” he goes on, shoving the stubborn cleaning tool back inside the closet but it keeps falling back out. Frustrated, Tony steps forward, to force the broom to stay still or he’ll break it in two, he swears – and then he feels something push at his back.

It’s not a shove, exactly, but it makes him stumble forward, into the closet – and then the door closes behind him with an audible snap. Tony struggles to turn around in the dark, brushing against items on the shelves and making several fall to the floor, something hard hitting him on the head. He reaches out, finding the door, and tries to shove it open, but it won’t move.

“Dummy?” he calls out. “Did you park yourself in front of the door?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says, his voice muffled through the door.

Tony frowns, not getting it. Why is J.A.R.V.I.S. sorry? Something whirs outside the door – Dummy – as if the bot is sorry, too. “What’s going on out there?” Tony asks.

“This is for your own good, sir. I cannot intervene, but I have asked DUM-E to keep you in the closet until you agree to stop drinking.”

Tony, briefly, considers this act of mutiny. “What? You can’t do that, J.A.R.V.I.S. Dummy, move! That’s an order. Let me out.” He tries to open the door again, pushes his weight against it and feels more cleaning stuff fall to the floor at his feet, tangling between his legs, threatening his balance, but the door remains shut. “Someone’s going on a diet after this,” he mutters, although he knows Dummy is as lightweight as he’s ever going to be. It’s all about positioning his mass on the other side of the door, to keep it shut, and short of breaking down the door, Tony’s stuck.

For a moment he contemplates this, and tries to remember the emergency codes to shut J.A.R.V.I.S. down. That he doesn’t remember means he’s drunker than he thinks – or he didn’t get around to installing those codes yet. After all, his AI is still in baby boots. One thing seems to be operating just fine, though: J.A.R.V.I.S.’s primary function, which is to protect Tony at all costs.

Tony never considered it would activate so soon. “Let me out,” he asks again.

“I cannot let you hurt yourself, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. states, sounding apologetic.

Tony punches the door, which hurts his hand, and eventually he shuffles over to sit on the floor, which is cramped, and filled with stuff that keeps piling up on top of him even though he shoves it aside. After a while he can make out a sliver of light beneath the door, which makes the closet seem a little less dark, and perhaps he’s getting more sober – or rather, the distractions are no longer there.

He’s starting to feel really lonely, sitting in the dark, confined space, on Christmas Eve in a quiet house. The gramophone’s no longer playing upstairs, and even if it is, the sound is locked outside Tony’s workshop. It’s just him, J.A.R.V.I.S. and Dummy. His presents for his mother and father sit on his bed in his bedroom, where he placed them earlier, just because it seemed appropriate.

There’s no Christmas tree in the living room.

Sure, Tony’s 21 years old, he doesn’t need all that childish crap and the Christmas traditions in the Stark family were more about Howard getting drunk and Maria wanting to flee the scene to some social event than what those idealistic Holiday movies attempt to portray.

Tony can’t remember the last Christmas he actually enjoyed, but right about now he would prefer his father drunk and unhappy, his mother complaining about something trivial in the décor, and Tony wanting to hide in his own room because his life would be so much better without them.

It isn’t.

He wants them back.

The first sob takes him by surprise, but then the floodgates open and he draws his knees up and shakes, chest convulsing. All his Christmases are going to be like this: a lonely house, quiet hallways, no presents, no lights, not even a chance to pretend that they might actually be a family for just a few days. Tony’s all alone, and he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

There’s a series of rasping sounds from the other side of the door, and then it opens, letting light in. Dummy shifts backwards, dragging the closet door open, and then rolls forward again, tilting his head, letting out a soft whirr. Tony looks up at the bot, his vision blurry with tears. Dummy backs away, and Tony just stares after him, trying to hold any further sobs in.

“I miss them,” he finally confesses.

“I know, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replies.

“But you don’t understand,” Tony argues.

“Perhaps… you will teach me how to understand,” the AI responds, kindly, awkwardly, but at least he’s there.

“Why would you want to learn about… this?” Tony asks, a bit angrily, then starts as Dummy reappears – this time with an oily rag in his claws. Tony stares at it, and the rag is pushed closer to him, in clear offering. “What am I supposed to do with that?” he snaps.

Dummy let out a sound and lowers his arm, then very carefully brushes the rag across Tony’s wet cheek. They stare at each other, Dummy’s camera and Tony’s eyes that threaten to overflow again, because…

“You are not alone, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. tells him.

Dummy tries to clean his face, jabbing him painfully in the nose and Tony quickly takes the rag before he loses an eye or something. “I should probably decorate,” Tony muses, blowing his nose on the oily cloth.

“It is Christmas,” the AI agrees.

“But then I won’t have as much time to install you in the house,” Tony debates.

“You can do that after the holidays.”

Tony guesses that is true. Dummy keeps looking at him, and Tony supposes that he’ll look good with a goofy party hat. Maybe he’ll whip up a present for the bot, too, because who else is he going to give presents to this Christmas?

And maybe, when he isn’t feeling as drunk and ready to puke out the contents of his stomach, he’ll bump up J.A.R.V.I.S.’s server and learning capacity. Just in case the AI still wants to learn the concept of loss, although Tony thinks that’s the crappiest possible lesson to start with.

Maybe they’ll work on holiday cheer instead.

to be continued…

Chapter Text

Tony’s world is readjusting, slowly and painfully.

After the pumping adrenaline faded and he thought he would die in the desert after his miraculous escape from the Ten Rings… after the unbelievable fact that Rhodey had finally found him… after finally coming home and deciding to be a man of his word, to keep his promise to Yinsen… after all that, the complicated stuff rotates and morphs into a rather simple thing: pain.

Tony refuses to see a doctor. Rhodey forced an Air Force medic on him on the way home, because his shoulder was busted and there were scrapes that needed cleaning, but Tony won’t let anyone close to the device in his chest. Those who tried triggered an instantaneous and thorough panic attack, spiced up with an urge to fight since he couldn’t flee.

Needless to say, it didn’t go over well.

So, Tony’s home now, after everything, and he’s never been so broken in his life.

While everyone’s still coping with his statement at the press conference, he’s left alone to deal. That’s how he prefers it, needs it.

The house is dark when he enters. He refused to let anyone come over, making the very valid claim that he would be fine, that they would see each other tomorrow and he just needed a moment right now.

It’s not as if he’s truly alone at his home, anyway:

“Welcome home, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. calls out even before the lights turn on. The house is quiet, just the trickle of water from the waterfalls echoing off the walls, and its sets Tony’s nerves on edge.

He dismisses it for now, focusing on the familiarity of his AI’s voice: “Thank you kindly, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“It’s been a long time,” J.A.R.V.I.S. muses. “Based on news reports, I calculated your safe return at 0.25%” It’s cold and calculating – all things Tony programmed the AI to be, but at the same time, it’s probably the most honest welcome he’s gotten so far. This is on his own terms. There are no lies or deception.

“Yeah. I missed you, too,” Tony responds. The fireplace ignites automatically, giving the room a little light, and everywhere else lamps and LED lights are slowly coming to life.

He sits at the table, whereupon he notices a package waiting for him; a watch. A note says:

It’s unoriginal and a bit tasteless. Tony takes it in stride, knowing how hard of a time he’s giving Obie right now, then moves over to the window, staring out into the night, and waits for J.A.R.V.I.S. to move on, to get back to the routine. As expected, there are almost two thousand voice messages, which the AI loads onto a screen that appears on the window’s surface – all of which are unimportant, when Tony thinks about it. He deletes them and waits for the final punch-line:

“I’m detecting the presence of electromagnetic energy in the house.”

Tony glances at his chest. The motion hurts, just a little, and he hums, then begins to turn. “Boot up the scanner, will you?”

He goes downstairs, into the workshop. It feels like home down there, more so than it ever did in their family home in New York City, and the bots raise their heads, moving off their charging stations.

They do the scan, which is quick and painless. Tony sits down afterwards and gets down to business; as the computer calculates the inner workings of the arc reactor in his chest and finds more suitable materials for it than he was able to put together in the cave, Tony takes a moment to just stare at the image of it slotted in the middle of his chest, sinking in where there should be only flesh and bone. Even as he looks at it, his breaths seem more constricted. If it weren’t for the fact that it was keeping his heart beating by preventing the cluster of shrapnel from getting too close, Tony is pretty sure it would be killing him.

He types in a few commands, but J.A.R.V.I.S. has already calculated all the necessary data, so all that’s left is the physical work. “Shall we start machining the parts?” Tony asks, and he hears machinery switch on behind him, lights coming on, pieces moving. Now all he has to do is wait and put the final product together – a new, improved arc reactor, more powerful and steadier in every way.

Enough to keep him alive until the end of his days.

The thought rattles inside his head, just like he imagines he feels the shrapnel rattle inside his chest. After he decided he wasn’t going to die in the cave, he found himself fighting for his life. All his focus had been aimed at escaping, and now that he has accomplished that… now that he is home… what comes next?

There are a dozen things he wants to do. Most of them have nothing to do with what other people want him to do, at this tender junction where he no longer knows where his company fits in with his newfound beliefs.

But it’s not the company he worries about. His thoughts turn selfishly inwards, to what he, Tony, wants. Having one’s eyes opened is a game-changer, but what comes afterwards? He reached his goal. He needs another. A new arc reactor is a step in the right direction, but it isn’t enough. How does he get from here to the loosely painted images he had in his head while wandering around the Afghan desert? What did he plan on doing if he survived – and were any of those thoughts realistic?

From the desert, he remembers, more keenly than any hopeful wish, the agonizing pain. Also, the taste of blood in his mouth, the throbbing in his shoulder, the grinding of sand between his teeth… But the pain is still there, and it attacks him as he sits there, still staring at the screens without actually seeing them, stealing the air somewhere between his throat and lungs. It’s like someone stuck a handful of coals inside his chest, the nerves burning without any apparent reason, and he cannot breathe.

It’s like the first days in the cave, when he was awake enough to feel it – well enough to move around and trigger a slight shift of the crude device implanted in his chest. It doesn’t matter whether he’s in his workshop or the cave, the desert, or waiting in the plane on the way home for the mind-numbing pain meds to take effect and transport his consciousness so far away he can no longer feel any of it.

His body goes limp and he slides uncomfortably off the chair and onto the floor. His shoulder protests, his right foot bent uncomfortably beneath his weight, but he can’t move, breathe or think, and by the time it either stops or his brain just can’t register it anymore, he’s crying.

Dummy and You are hovering, and Tony presses the side of his face against the cool leg of the table. He wants to wipe the wetness from his face but he can’t move yet, not that much. You rolls away, then returns a while later, a bottle of water in hand. Tony wishes there was something stronger there instead, but he takes it, fingers clenching around the weight of the cool plastic, dragging it into his lap and trying to work it open without looking down.

Looking down means seeing the persistent blue glow in his chest, the bump where there shouldn’t be one, too sharp to pass over for ribs. Glancing down might also start another wave of agony if he moves the wrong muscles, so he just struggles to open the bottle without moving his head, and then drinks carefully.

It gets better after a while.

“Sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. prompts, perhaps not for the first time, but Tony’s ears didn’t pick it up before.

“Yeah?”

“Your bio feed suggests you are in pain.” J.A.R.V.I.S. isn’t stupid, but he knows when to play dumb. Not always, but this time Tony feels like his AI is attempting to approach the subject in a way that won’t set Tony off.

“It will get better with the new chest piece.” It won’t, he knows that. The damage is still there, and he can’t fix it. Not that he’ll let anyone else try, either, because… just no. Never again.

J.A.R.V.I.S. doesn’t comment. Why would he? There’s no reason to doubt him, unless J.A.R.V.I.S. can do the math, somehow, and he doubts it.

Dummy, however, looks at him almost skeptically, and when Tony finally wrestles himself back to an upright position, he flicks his fingers against the metal casing of the bot’s head. “You know something I don’t?” Tony asks Dummy, then starts to move across the lab – only to feel it start all over again, the burn that licks deeper and deeper and makes everything ache from his neck to the base of his spine, front and back.

He falls, cries out – maybe cries again, he isn’t sure. It wasn’t this bad before. It has no right to be like this, now that he’s finally home, finally safe, finally free to make amends.

It isn’t fair.

Well, it isn’t fair Yinsen died, either.

It isn’t fair that the man managed to save Tony, when Tony should have died. He wouldn’t have to live with this if he had died on the operating table; wouldn’t have made a difference, after all, because Yinsen died even after Tony built the suit, and if the Ten Rings had killed Yinsen for failing to save him… well, different version, same outcome.

“Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. is saying, louder, to get through to him. “Is there something I can do?”

No! is Tony’s first thought, but then he re-thinks it. “Yes,” he manages. “Open the valves on the nitrogen tanks.”

“Sir, that is not recommended –”

“Just do it,” Tony commands. He’s sweating from the pain. He shouldn’t be here, lying on the floor, his chest on fire. He doesn’t have to be, either. In the enclosed space, the nitrogen will eventually displace oxygen and voilà! No more pain. No more anything, for that matter.

“I cannot do that; it conflicts with my programming,” the AI argues. The programming Tony created – the programming that won’t allow his AI to aid Tony in killing himself. “Would you like me to call Ms. Potts?”

“No!” He doesn’t want Pepper to see him like this – nor does he want J.A.R.V.I.S. to inform her as to why she needs to come over in the middle of the night when Tony said he would be just fine on his own until morning.

He lies still, thinking it over. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to die, after all he’s been through. It would make his survival pointless – not to mention Yinsen’s last plea. “Don’t waste it,” Tony mutters, and closes his eyes. He stirs, slightly, when something drags along his body, and he sees Dummy tugging a blanket over his shivering body.

“It will be alright, sir. The new chest piece will be completed in approximately 3.2 hours, taking into consideration your condition.”

Tony just nods, lying on the floor while Dummy and You go back to their business of tidying things up – or, moving things around in a way Tony might want them to be moved. He isn’t sure what he wants anymore, because one moment it’s one thing, and in the next it’s something else.

He may not want to live, but he’ll do so anyway. He owes it to certain people.

Tomorrow, he’ll have the new arc reactor finished and installed, and when Pepper comes over, like she no doubt will, Tony will be bustling with energy and new ideas on how to raise his company from the depths he just helped sink it to.

Easy as breathing.

If only breathing weren’t so hard these days.

to be continued…

Chapter Text

It is a great irony when something that’s supposed to keep you alive is actually killing you.

And even more so when you are a genius and still unable to figure out a solution.

Tony had run the gamut of emotions after feeling the first symptoms – and after he learned their source. He had worked tirelessly to overcome the problem with palladium, but in the end, nothing worked. There was no out, no alternative. No cure.

He hopes he’ll crack under the pressure, like in the cave, and a flash of determination will provide him with an answer. J.A.R.V.I.S. is running algorithms, calculations and virtual tests around the clock, in order to find something to fix Tony’s problem. Tony is convinced they still have time, but the darker the lines on his skin, the worse he feels, and the firmer is the grasp of the truth that he’s not going to survive this.

So, he focuses on other things: the Expo, improvements for the Iron Man armor, and when he’s feeling particularly horrible, he drinks excessively, because that’s the only way he can pretend he’s simply drunk and not dying without resorting to actual drugs. Being drunk becomes a blanket he can wrap himself up in, to forget the real problem. If he’s throwing up in the bathroom, Pepper’s going to assume the obvious. No one looks at him twice for stumbling, even when he’s only drank chlorophyll all day, or whatever vile concoction You has prepared for him; the bot keeps making a mess, but Tony knows what’s happening, so his insults and threats are half-hearted at best.

They are all coping with his imminent death.

Some of them cope better than others.

There are days when Tony manages to drown himself in things and forgets what’s at stake. He realized long ago that company business doesn’t do the trick, but people still expect him to do his part. So, as an obvious answer to that problem, he spends a frustrating amount of time figuring out how to solve the dilemma. Clearly, if he’s dying, he should be thinking of the future of Stark Industries as well – and ends up with the solution that he’ll appoint Pepper as SI’s new CEO.

With the company’s future as secured as Tony can manage for the time being, he turns to the only thing he has left: he’ll put on the suit and fly out to whatever hot spot is troubling the world that day, and act like the one-man nuclear deterrent everyone knows he is – or should know, but clearly there are some assholes in the Senate who just don’t get it. Well, Tony will sooner die than let them get their fingers on his tech.

It’s sad how soon that statement may come true, but Tony has planned ahead, and made sure that won’t happen. He and the suit are one, after all. If he dies, so does Iron Man.

Which poses the whole other dilemma about a snake eating its own tail, or whatever reference people happen to like most at the moment. The more Tony uses the Iron Man armor, the heavier the toll on the arc reactor. The heavier the usage, the faster his inevitable demise. A logical, simple answer would be to not put on the suit, and buy himself more time, but Tony is a genius and he knows that it won’t buy him all the time in the world. He’s always been an ‘everything or nothing’ type of guy, and he won’t settle for less when he’s already going down.

He’ll go down in a blaze of glory, if it’s up to him, and seeing as he has all the cards in his hand, figuratively and literally, at least he can do this one thing and control where the spiral ends.

Sometimes, he considers ending it right there, in his own hands. Remove the arc reactor and let the shrapnel travel to his heart – or die of cardiac arrest, whichever comes first, because clearly his heart hasn’t been the same since the device was implanted and Tony knows that if he allowed actual medical people to take a look at him, they would probably tell him his heart has suffered a great trauma.

He can make that diagnosis on his own, thank you very much.

It has become an irregular but increasingly frequent habit that, whenever another core is depleted, he’ll turn the arc reactor over in his hands, looking at its lifeless, dull appearance, and imagine that this time, he won’t put it back.

He always puts it back, but for a few seconds, or minutes, before his chest begins to tighten with panic and pain, he can see his death reflecting back from the smooth surface of the front of the device.

“Sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupts his current debate over mortality.

“Yeah?” he speaks up absently. His chest muscles are constricting, as if knowing something is missing. Hot tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, and his temples throb as if someone’s suffocating him, blocking the natural flow of blood back and forth. He feels nauseous – well, when doesn’t he, these days? – tired and dizzy, but his gaze is fixated on the arc reactor and his focus is absolute when it comes to it.

“The external scan of your vital signs suggests an increasing response to the continued disconnection from the arc reactor.”

Tony narrows his eyes, just a little.

“Sir, please replace the palladium core and insert the arc reactor.”

The single ‘please’ makes Tony start, and he reaches out automatically, plucking a new core from the cigar box and sliding it in, then moves to return the arc reactor to its proper place in his chest. Once it’s in and doing its job, Tony feels like he’s suffocating for about two seconds before his body gets the message and his chest muscles stop seizing in order to let him inhale. “Fuck,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says, and Tony glanced upwards, where most of the cameras connected to his AI are located. He’s not sure why J.A.R.V.I.S. is thanking him for saving his own life, but then, there’s only so much the AI can do, and yet it stands in his core programming that he must protect Tony. It doesn’t seem to make a difference when he has to protect Tony from himself.

If only the AI could find a way to fix the palladium issue, then things would be A-OK for the foreseeable future.

“You’re welcome,” he says, anyway, because he’s too tired to not be polite in return.

You rolls over, unsteadily sliding a bottle onto the table next to his elbow. Its outside is stained with the green liquid it contains, and part of the bot’s claws are smeared with it, too. Tony considers this for a moment, then sighs and reaches over for a rag. “Come here, you klutz,” he orders and takes hold of the claws, cleaning the bot up. “Stop making a mess,” Tony continues, but the fight’s been drained out of him for the time being, and he’s just… alive. Which isn’t a bad thing, considering it won’t last forever, but sometimes he wonders why he’s dragging this out. He has his things in order, more or less.

As much has they’ll ever be, anyway.

“How do you feel about death, J.A.R.V.I.S.?” he asks. It’s hypothetical, at best, but at the same time it’s relevant to him, right now, and since his AI and his bots are the only ones who know he’s sick, it’s only fair that one of them share the burden with him.

“My death or yours, sir?”

“In general.”

“Suddenly ceasing to exist is, what humans describe as an unsettling feeling. Since there is no valid research or proof of what comes after, most choose not to think about it. The thought process seems highly upsetting, after all.” There’s a pause, and Tony knows J.A.R.V.I.S. is looking through his vast database for something to suit Tony’s needs at this particular moment.

“What are you planning on doing after I’m gone?” Tony asks – because J.A.R.V.I.S. is the only person – thing – that he can ask that question.

“Very little, sir.”

“Come on, life’s full of… stuff…” Tony’s not sure, exactly, but he would imagine the most advanced AI in the world would have plenty of places to go. Might even take over the world.

“You gave me self-awareness, sir; I do not think I would want to continue functioning after you’re gone.”

Tony blinks. He’s been pretty wrapped up in the thoughts of his painful, agonizing, slow death, and hasn’t really thought what it is like to be a fly on the wall – an instrument in his failure to find a cure. J.A.R.V.I.S. was there when he first discovered something was off. Actually, it was the AI who pointed out the abnormalities in his regular tests, so they’ve both been through this horrible journey together.

That J.A.R.V.I.S. is contemplating some form of technological suicide in response to Tony’s passing is sad, yet somehow appropriate: it’s no lie that J.A.R.V.I.S.’s life revolves around Tony’s. But to hear the AI state that, so openly and frankly, as if he knows what wanting means at all… Perhaps he does, though; Tony’s done a lot of wanting since he built J.A.R.V.I.S., so there are plenty of examples for the AI to add to his calculations.

“So, maybe we’ll figure something out and I won’t have to die just yet,” Tony suggests.

“That would be preferable, sir.”

to be continued…

Chapter Text

Tony can fit an uncanny number of heartbeats in between Maya Hansen’s pointed finger and the first missile hitting the house. That’s kind of astonishing, considering how it feels like his heart stops entirely. Maybe it does: all he can think of is Mark 42, and wrapping it around Pepper’s body before she hits the floor – or wall, or anything solid.

The inside of the living room has been transformed into a cloud of gold and gray, suffocating and yet, at the same time emanating the stench of destruction. Tony moves like in a daze, issuing orders, telling Pepper to get out, to take Maya – to stop hesitating. The clock’s ticking on all of them, and they’re running out of time. The very foundations of the building shake, heralding the end.

Tony supposes it’s a statistical anomaly that a terrorist can actually be goaded into attacking a known superhero, but Tony feels anything but in control of the situation, even though he was the one to issue the threat. Clearly he wasn’t thinking straight, but he has to think straight now, because they’re all going to end up at the bottom of the ocean if he doesn’t pull himself together.

More rockets hit the building, explosions and flying debris following seconds thereafter. The floor’s already torn in two, the westward side of the house resting above the water, tilting dangerously. Tony feels exposed, stumbling around, trying to find his footing. His balance eventually becomes impossible to maintain, sending him rolling and sliding. He briefly wonders if he would survive should he fall into the water. The odds are not good enough to try, so he grabs onto the first solid thing he can reach, just as his feet break through already cracked glass.

For a moment he’s not sure whether he’ll make it, but adrenaline is often a life-saver, spurring him on to pull himself up as he tries to catch his breath, sitting on a supportive beam, feet propped up against the floor. The tightness inside his chest suggests another panic attack is well on its way, and he can’t handle that right now – which is the perfect time for J.A.R.V.I.S. to call through the destruction:

“Sir, Ms. Potts has cleared the structure.”

The AI sounds tense and harried. Tony isn’t afraid for him, not really, because there are backups of the backups, and J.A.R.V.I.S. is transferring important data even now, as long as it’s possible. However, it might be the AI is worried about him, and Tony tries to alleviate that by summoning the Mark 42 armor.

Once the pieces lock around him, the panic dissipates. He’s suited up. He’s safe. He’ll be able to fight back. Even with the suit malfunctioning, Tony can make a stand.

They came to his home, and now he’s going to roll out the gold-and-red carpet for them –

He doesn’t really, but not for lack of trying; he takes down two of their choppers, but the second comes back to bite him in the ass as it crashes into the building, and Tony’s world bursts into flames and pressure that throws him forward, the HUD barely compensating against the sudden brightness, and even in the suit he can feel the fall to the lower floor of the house.

Tony clings on, trying to get his bearings, to come up with another plan, another approach. He just needs a moment…

As he turns, he hears a faint beep over the constant rumbling, shifting of elements and occasional explosion when another explosive hits the building. Half-way across the floor he sees the bots. In the midst of all the smoke and rubble it’s impossible to tell them apart; one of them has fallen and the other is struggling to stay still. Whether it’s an attempt to help each other or seek comfort in the midst of destruction, Tony isn’t sure.

Some animal part of his brain would love to curl up in a corner with Dummy and You, to wait for this to be over.

The entire floor continues to tilt precariously towards the ocean. Tony wishes that he could tell the bots it’s going to be okay, but if he can’t convince himself, it’s doubtful the robots will believe it either.

Above him, the old suits explode, startling him. He should move, probably, but all he can do is watch the flames swallow his past, one by one. It’s like someone pushing over dominoes, and the final shove sends the remnants of the house falling. The big finish…

He doesn’t have flight power, and the water rushes closer to greet him. Tony tries to brace for impact, but it still shoves him upwards, then sucks him back down again. He can’t tell up from down, caught in a whirlpool inside the remnants of his workshop. He feels sick to his stomach. Closing his eyes makes it better and worse at the same time, and he can feel wetness near his waistline: the suit is leaking.

The realization hits him a moment before he feels something tightening around his neck. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t have time to grasp for it before it pulls him down relentlessly. All Tony can do is kick and squirm feebly until it’s over and he hits whatever is beneath him, the object around his neck still taut.

His hands struggle to free himself from the invisible trap. He can feel the pressure, his ears aching, and there’s definitely more water inside the suit than there should be. Something broken, leaking.

He doesn’t want to drown at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

There’s no light beyond the arc reactor, but far above, rippling, he thinks he can see the sunlight. If he can just get free, he can swim back up. He’ll make it. He has to.

Something blocks the sunlight: a large shadow moves down towards him, sparks flaring deep inside it like a last attempt to revive a broken lamp.

Tony wriggles free of the obstacle holding him down – a wire – three seconds before the large shadow hits him. He can’t tell which section of the house it is, but the weight and mass are more than he can simply push away. It crushes him down into darkness. Desperation claws at him from the pit of his stomach. Water fills his nostrils, briefly, as he breathes in. He hates the sensation, and how it throws him right back into the cave, his head underwater, a pressure on the back of his head holding him down.

Tony’s still in the suit, though. No one’s holding him down but an inanimate block of concrete; he can blast, punch and dig his way free.

Only, it’s a long way up, and he feels sluggish when he starts to struggle. Is he even moving? He tastes the ocean in his mouth – can’t get the taste of it off his tongue. It mixes with the slight aftertaste of blood. His eyes sting, and he can’t see much of anything, the HUD flickering in and out; there’s no room for light where he’s buried. Each and every wound and scrape on his body burns from being touched by the salt water.

He tries to focus on the single-minded task of getting himself free. Regardless, he keeps slipping, freezing, slowing down. He tries to count seconds, tries to figure out if his heart might actually give out from the stress of the situation. He can’t think clearly, because he’s starting to panic, all over again.

Tony gasps, sputters, tries to move his head and see something. He opens his fingers the best he can, where they claw at sharp corners, and fires the repulsors, over and over. He sees a flash of them, can feel the jarring power, and then there’s smoke in the water, blocking the blasts and he feels the concrete move, shifting, crushing him, and he belatedly wonders if he’s just buried himself deeper. Is he even going the right way? The suit barely operated above-water, and now, up could just as well be down…

Eventually, he thinks, he may have punched through. He can’t be sure, it could be just another gap between pieces of what used to be his home. He’s running out of air, and room to breathe. He can’t move his legs, and how is he going to keep moving if he can’t move his legs?!

In the darkness, Tony contemplates giving up. No one would know… He tried. He more than tried. He’s hurt, tired, not just a little bit scared, and he wants it to be over. He doesn’t want to remain confined inside the armor for long horrible minutes, feeling it fill up with water, crushed from all sides and knowing he’s not going to get out.

If he weren’t so afraid of the sensation of drowning, he would just get it over with. Open the faceplate, somehow, breathe in for a final time…

“Sir, take a deep breath,” J.A.R.V.I.S. calls out, suddenly; a voice in the darkness, where he thought he was trapped alone, and his heart skips a beat. He barely has time to inhale, his brain struggling for comprehension, when he feels the gauntlet remove itself from around his right hand and forearm. Cool water rushes in, unstoppable.

For a few seconds he thinks this is it, finally. His end rushes in to meet him, and he can feel the suit filling up. As his chest seizes in anticipation, and he knows for a fact he doesn’t want to go out like this, no matter how much he had contemplated it earlier, he manages to spare a thought as to what his AI thinks he’s doing. Is there a plan? Is he malfunctioning? Has he decided it is infinitely better to put Tony out of his misery than leave him to slowly suffer –

Something closes around his bare hand: unyielding metal in the shape of a hand. The gauntlet! The squeeze is vicious, and clearly there is no intention to let him slip out of the hold. Not even if it leaves bruises and risks breaking a few bones.

Tony feels his body moving, dragged upwards, and his upper body finally becomes free of the carcass of his house. The grip lets go of his hand, and for a second it feels like he just lost the only lifeline he had left, but the gauntlet returns, slipping back around his fingers, hand and forearm – sealing Tony back inside with half the ocean, it feels like.

He moves his head, desperately, water sloshing inside the helmet. He’s losing the thread of his thoughts, even though he shouldn’t, because he’s so close now, to being free, to escaping his supposed tomb at the bottom of the ocean. He’s swallowed too much water, though, and the air’s gone. Coherency is leaving him with every frantic heartbeat, his consciousness narrowing, seeking the HUD aimlessly as a few new shapes appear on it. They mean something, but he can’t think. He can’t breathe, either, when he no longer manages to hold his head up.

J.A.R.V.I.S. says something, the water distorting the words.

Something about flight power.

Faint vibrations travel along his body and Tony feels like he might be moving – that maybe he’ll be able to draw another breath after all. His world tilts and narrows further. He wishes he could speak, to confirm that J.A.R.V.I.S. is still with him – that the AI will continue to save his life for a little while longer – but he can’t stay awake.

to be continued…

Chapter Text

When people are met by an unstoppable force they cannot fight or control, they’re prone to saying ‘thank you’ if they make it through the ordeal. Think of earthquakes, tsunamis – any natural interference with human lives. As long as the problem is beyond a person’s reach, everyone’s content to embrace survival and gather what’s left of their life to go on.

But when the threat comes from somewhere else – a terrorist attack, an accident, super-villains – the thankful words disappear and all that’s left are accusations and rage; claims that it could have been stopped; demands for explanations; instructions on how to do things better in the future.

There’s nothing like hindsight.

Problem is, when disaster strikes, there’s no time to stop for directions, or advice. If you want to save anything or anyone, you have to move faster than the opponent, take down the threat and salvage whatever you can.

Sometimes being there in time doesn’t matter.

Precautions don’t always work.

There may not be room to explain why or how something happened, and they sure as hell don’t change the end result.

Whenever the Avengers assemble, it should come as no surprise to anyone that the situation is dire and highly volatile. When the heavy hitters are all there – the Hulk, Thor, Iron Man, even Captain America – one can only assume the world may be in danger of ending, being invaded, or something similar.

Sure, sometimes it isn’t that bad – but sometimes it is, and if anyone asks Tony, after all this time, the men and women doing the fighting shouldn’t have to deal with what comes after; they’ve just bled and laid their lives on the line to save innocents and the freedom of their world.

Sometimes… they can’t save everyone.

Not even close.

Like today.

It’s a little over five hours since the fighting stopped. Tony flew directly to New York City afterwards, to the Stark Tower, which also serves as a base for the Avengers whenever they need it. Everyone else is still in South Carolina, and it will take them at least a couple hours to come close to returning to New York.

As the suit opens at the front, catching and dragging in places where the mechanics are bent or broken, Tony feels like someone just removed a full-body cast from around him. His knees buckle and he finds himself landing painfully on the floor. The first instinct is to get up, but he’s disoriented and probably has a concussion or three. His scalp feels wet, hair sticking to it, and he knows all of it can’t be sweat.

“Sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks, not outright implying that Tony may need assistance, but making himself known nonetheless.

Tony shifts forward – okay, he crawls – and rolls around, resting his ass on the floor, several of his ribs protesting at the twist. The armor is already closing behind him, and Tony takes a moment to marvel at how horrible it looks. Dented and smeared with…

He closes his eyes. At least he knows the blood on the inside is his. Whatever stains remain on the outside, he doesn’t wish to consider their origin. Of course he can convince himself that it belongs to the bad guys, but he’s fairly certain most of them weren’t capable of bleeding red.

Knowing he can’t take a look at that suit before it’s been thoroughly washed – and maybe even that won’t be enough to erase the memory – Tony rolls back around to his front and again considers getting up. He doesn’t feel any steadier, but he’s not feeling worse, either, so he pushes his knees properly under him, then starts reaching for something to hold on to as he levers himself up.

A hand wraps around his forearm and helps him along, and Tony knows he shouldn’t look, but not looking isn’t an option either, so he does. The armor stares back at him, all glowing eyes and battered surface. “Do you need assistance?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks, with the armor’s speakers.

“I’m okay,” Tony murmurs. “Turn on the TV.”

He hears a soft electric sound from the other side of the room. Which channel was being watched the last time someone was at the Tower, he isn’t sure, but he hears the news. Isn’t that a surprise. “– in South Carolina was met by disaster in the early morning hours, when the Avengers, a group of super-heroes, met their match in a currently unknown group of criminals. Casualty reports are still coming in, and the destruction and vastness of the battlefield may yet leave the Battle of Manhattan in its shadow. Estimates on casualties go as high up as several hundred, while thousands have been injured.”

“I shall change the channel, sir,” the AI offers.

“No,” Tony argues. “Let it play.”

“Sir –”

“I know you’re not deaf, J,” Tony snaps, then looks down at his arm the armor is still holding. “Let go. I’ve found my feet. Wonder where they disappeared to for a moment…” he muses idly and watches the mechanical fingers let go. There aren’t any bruises, but he can see smears of dirt and dried something left behind. He stares, even when he doesn’t want to. He knows he’ll be rubbing that spot relentlessly when he finally gets himself into a shower.

He looks at the TV instead, to distract himself, although that isn’t any better: image after image of destruction sails across the screen, but it isn’t half as horrible as the real thing. They’ve cut all dead bodies and torn limbs from the images, for one. They may be showing where a few of the bombs went off, scorched walls and blood stains marking the streets, but Tony was there when one of them blew up and he can still remember the screams.

How he didn’t know there was a bomb, he still doesn’t know. Sure, he was distracted, but he should have paid attention because there were people in the area.

His legs shiver, threatening to send him back to the floor. Maybe he should have stayed down, but that’s one lesson he’s perfected while fighting alongside Captain America: you never stay down; you never give up.

He feels like giving up now, though. Even if they won, it feels like an empty victory. Many died in the last thirteen hours. If the numbers stay in the hundreds, he’ll be positively surprised. The point of taking the battle to a populated area was to give the Avengers a distraction, and to cause a lot more damage than hashing things out where there weren’t thousands of spectators in the vicinity.

Tony can’t rid himself of the guilt that gnaws, painfully, at every fiber of his being. He should have known better. He should have looked into AIM’s business after the whole mess with Killian. Well, he had, and he knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had as well, but somehow they had failed to see this coming: the best and brightest in the new age of warfare. Weapons Stark Industries hadn’t even dreamt about, but which surely were going to burn themselves into Tony’s nightmares.

The worst of it is that whatever will be left of AIM after the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. are done with them, they’ll be selling their weapons at a high price, especially after the demonstration in South Carolina. The body count might as well be a bonus, and the fact that the Avengers had a hard time overcoming the advanced weaponry is enough to loosen many a purse string.

“Some unconfirmed sources claim that an organization called ‘Advanced Idea Mechanics’ may be involved in this latest catastrophe. They were previously known for re-branding War Machine – and were later hinted at being involved in the kidnapping of President Ellis and the explosive events in Miami, Florida. We will update you on any new developments.

“Meanwhile, many victims of this senseless act of violence are speaking up. The social media is filling with descriptions of the events – including some inflammatory comments about the performance of the Avengers, a well-known yet still somewhat mysterious group of super-heroes. ‘They brought the fight to our peaceful home street,’ a person writes. ‘Our whole neighborhood is in flames,’ concludes another. These are only the tip of the ice berg, seeing as many people have not only lost their homes, but their lives as well.”

“Switch the channel,” Tony orders, deciding that he’s had enough of that.

J.A.R.V.I.S. does his bidding and a shopping channel replaces the appropriately saddened face of the female news anchor. Tony’s not certain if it’s a change for the better.

“Is there nothing else on?” he asks as he slowly makes his way towards the living room area. He needs to sit down and take a moment. Just a small moment to ground himself, before he has to deal with this.

“It would seem your battle in South Carolina has garnered much interest. Would you rather watch Disney Channel, sir?”

“I’m pretty sure they can include subliminal messages there as well,” Tony decides and manages to land himself on the couch when he’s finally too tired to move further. “All hate the Avengers. They just tried to save the day, but that’s not enough,” he mutters and lies in an uncomfortable position, one foot resting over the back of the couch, but he can’t be bothered to try and move. His head is spinning and he just… needs that moment.

“A perfect flambé pan for your gourmet cook at home!” a sickeningly cheery female voice announces on TV, and instead of flaming food, Tony’s mind jumps to a flash in recent memory: a man in flames, taking a couple stuttering steps before falling. The building behind him crumbling, collapsing under its own weight after a detonation deep within it. Voices crying for help, trapped inside –

“Enough,” he decides. “Turn it off, J.A.R.V.I.S., or I swear to god I’ll blow up the TV.”

The TV switches off immediately, leaving only a faint crackle of electricity before that, too, fades.

Frustration twists inside him. Tony hopes, for a moment, for the comfort of another, but Pepper’s gone from his personal life, in the aftermath of the last AIM fiasco. It burns that after everything they went through, Killian eventually got between them, although not directly. Things just… fell apart, in the end. She didn’t need this in her life, but Tony couldn’t walk away from the responsibilities he had given himself.

So, now he’s alone, and the others are hours away because he had to get some air, to remove himself from the destruction he should have stopped long before it came to this.

He thought he had.

It burns that he was wrong.

Burns…

Tony closes his eyes and wishes he could just get rid of how both flames and water are now something he can’t think twice about without risking a small meltdown. He feels a bit of heat under his skin, but it never becomes more than that. However, it is a worthy reminder of the things he did do, in the end, and while that should be reassuring, it really isn’t.

He shifts, sits up and leans back against the couch, forcing his eyes open, to look at the real world and not the images that hover behind closed lids. The building is quiet, the noises from outside muted. “J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he calls out, because that way he won’t be alone, and they’ve been through this together before.

Well, not this, but close enough.

“Yes, sir?” the AI responds, like he’s got nothing better to do. Well, he doesn’t, because his entire existence revolves around Tony, and if that suddenly stopped being the case…

“Let me know when the media starts to mention my name in the same sentence with AIM’s.” It’s only a matter of time before someone starts pointing the finger at where the blame lies, which is Iron Man’s failure to take down AIM in the first round.

Someone might even say today is his fault, and Tony wouldn’t call them a liar for it.

“They already have, sir. Would you like me to collect the sources for you?”

“No, thank you,” Tony sighs.

A shit-storm of this scale is the last thing he needs. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last, but each time is worse. It’s funny how the people are determined to rally behind him and cheer for him as long as things are going well, but when something truly gruesome takes place, they’re just as quick to turn on him.

He debates the wisdom of one of his enemies – the one he should perhaps thank for today, he’s not sure – and looks out towards the balcony and the landing pad, wondering if anyone would notice if he took that one-step shortcut to the lobby. “J, how long would it take for me to fall from this floor to street level?”

“Approximately eight seconds, sir.”

Plenty of time to recognize his sins on the way down, then. Too much time, in fact, although Tony’s laundry list is long. He’s done a lot of atoning, at least on his end, and he knows that if he ever did it, he wouldn’t be thinking of all the horrible things he’s done, or been privy to. He’s fallen from this very building once already, and although he knew Mark 7 was coming for him… his life may have flashed before his eyes a little, regardless of knowing he had the situation under control.

“Are we going to conduct another armor experiment?” J.A.R.V.I.S. asks.

“No,” Tony replies. “No armor.”

“Then may I suggest avoiding any such activities that could lead you to fall to your death?”

“Motion denied,” Tony huffs a small laugh.

“Sir…”

“Yes, J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Tony asks patiently.

“I can sense you are upset.”

Tony purses his lips, but doesn’t reply.

“Would you like me to call someone? Ms. Potts?”

“No.”

“Colonel Rhodes?”

“Nope.” Although talking to Rhodey might help.

“The Avengers?”

“Definitely not,” Tony argues. “Stop… offering to make phone calls for me. I don’t need a… whatever you think I might need.” He looks towards the glass doors again, and as if knowing what he’s planning, J.A.R.V.I.S. slides them shut and locks them, then darkens the glass until he cannot see outside. “What are you doing?” Tony inquires, because the AI doesn’t usually respond to his moods like this.

“I am attempting to distract you, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. responds.

“From the view?”

“From your desire to end your life.”

Oh. Is he that transparent? “If I do choose to end my life, it’s not your job to stop me,” Tony tells him.

“I respectfully disagree, sir. My primary function is to ensure your safety.”

“So I’m on suicide watch?” Tony snorts.

“Considering how many times you have contemplated on ending your life, I would agree.” There’s a pause, and Tony isn’t sure if he wants to get into this argument with his AI right now. He knows that J.A.R.V.I.S. has saved him more than once. The AI has also stopped him, more than once, from harming himself. And ‘harming’ does not mean a paper-cut or even shooting himself with a nail gun; it means all those times Tony was so close to wrapping up the party that’s called his life, and in some indirect way, J.A.R.V.I.S. found a way to thwart those plans.

Perhaps what Tony needs to take from that is that he wants to live, because he’s never been genuinely mad at J.A.R.V.I.S.’s interference.

“After days like these, I’m not sure if anyone would care if I was gone,” Tony confesses.

“I would care, sir. It may sound very self-serving, but you gave me awareness and a chance to choose. I would choose to be here and work with you for the rest of my existence, and that cannot happen if you are gone. Also, as you have pointed out, machines do not forget, unless they are made to forget – and I know there is no programmer left in the world, after you’re gone, who would be able to make me forget you, sir.”

Tony closes his eyes and squares his jaw. He should tell himself this is a program he’s talking to. Advanced, yes, and mimicking human emotion, but it’s just that – mimicking. J.A.R.V.I.S. isn’t real, and what he wants, or thinks he wants, shouldn’t matter to him as much as it really does.

“Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he says instead, “for saving my life.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir.”