Oblivion (Iron Man ficlet)
Something I've been poking at since caia_comica's kiss meme. Tony/Maya, set between Fallen Son #5 and Iron Man #15.
The street was far enough below him that almost no sound drifted up from it. No engine noise, no human voices, not even the faint, muted honk of a car horn. Very far down.
Tony leaned his elbows on the balcony, stared down at the bright flashes of headlights driving past Stark Tower, and wondered how far he could fall before instinct took over and he called the armor.
About sixty feet, he decided. Maybe a hundred. He'd never make it to the ground.
The night air was cold -- it always was in early spring -- but compared to the arctic wind he'd treked through this afternoon, it was warm. It seemed wrong, that spring was already here, that summer was coming. Things ought to stay frozen in March forever, the city soaked in rain and sleet and damp, creeping chill.
Very far down to the pavement. From the penthouse of Stark Tower, staring down at the street was like looking down through meter after meter of clear water, not at all like the murky, arctic waves he stared down through earlier today.
It had been a long way down then, too. A mile of ice-cold water, black and deep and he'd wanted nothing on this earth so much as to throw himself into it, let the sea close over his head and the cold darkness freeze away everything inside of him. Jan must have known; she'd pulled him back from the edge of the ice.
It would get easier, she'd said. It was time to move on. Everyone said that -- Clint, Jan, Carol, Maya. None of them could tell him how, though. Tony supposed he didn't really want to know.
What he wanted was for the pain to stop. He'd cut out his heart and left it in the polar ice, but the vast, hollow place it had left inside of him was almost worse. He could shut away the pain and guilt enough to keep going, to do what he needed to do, but he had to shut everything else away with it, until even the cool metal of the railing under his fingers felt distant. A drink or ten would help, until he couldn't remember this afternoon, or last week, or the entire goddamned month, but he'd promised St-- he'd promised he wouldn't drink anymore.
He could almost taste the way the whisky would burn the inside of his mouth, hot and cold together, evaporating into perfume on his tongue. Could actually smell the raw scent of alcohol...
"Tony?" Maya's voice. He didn't turned around, didn't answer. Talking to another human being was near the bottom of his list of priorities at the moment.
"Tone? You okay?" A hand on his arm, soft and hesitant. Tony turned then. Maya was standing next to him, a half-empty lowball glass in one hand, amber liquid and ice. Jack Daniels on the rocks; he could tell from the color and smell.
"I buried my best friend today." It sounded like someone else's voice, dull and empty and far away. "So, no, I'm not okay."
"It's cold out here," she said, sensibly, setting the glass down on the flat top of the railing. "You should come inside."
Tony didn't answer, eyes drawn instead to the half-full glass of whisky on the balcony rail, the long drop to the street beyond it. "Later," he said. "Leave me alone."
Maya took him by the shoulder, pulled him around to face her. "I don't think that would be a good idea," she said, and then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
Tony closed his eyes, one arm tightening involuntarily around her. No one had touched him in weeks, he realized. Not since Happy had died.
Maya's mouth tasted like Tennessee whisky, sharp and dizzying. As oblivion went, Tony decided, it would do.
He closed his eyes and deepened the kiss.
The street was far enough below him that almost no sound drifted up from it. No engine noise, no human voices, not even the faint, muted honk of a car horn. Very far down.
Tony leaned his elbows on the balcony, stared down at the bright flashes of headlights driving past Stark Tower, and wondered how far he could fall before instinct took over and he called the armor.
About sixty feet, he decided. Maybe a hundred. He'd never make it to the ground.
The night air was cold -- it always was in early spring -- but compared to the arctic wind he'd treked through this afternoon, it was warm. It seemed wrong, that spring was already here, that summer was coming. Things ought to stay frozen in March forever, the city soaked in rain and sleet and damp, creeping chill.
Very far down to the pavement. From the penthouse of Stark Tower, staring down at the street was like looking down through meter after meter of clear water, not at all like the murky, arctic waves he stared down through earlier today.
It had been a long way down then, too. A mile of ice-cold water, black and deep and he'd wanted nothing on this earth so much as to throw himself into it, let the sea close over his head and the cold darkness freeze away everything inside of him. Jan must have known; she'd pulled him back from the edge of the ice.
It would get easier, she'd said. It was time to move on. Everyone said that -- Clint, Jan, Carol, Maya. None of them could tell him how, though. Tony supposed he didn't really want to know.
What he wanted was for the pain to stop. He'd cut out his heart and left it in the polar ice, but the vast, hollow place it had left inside of him was almost worse. He could shut away the pain and guilt enough to keep going, to do what he needed to do, but he had to shut everything else away with it, until even the cool metal of the railing under his fingers felt distant. A drink or ten would help, until he couldn't remember this afternoon, or last week, or the entire goddamned month, but he'd promised St-- he'd promised he wouldn't drink anymore.
He could almost taste the way the whisky would burn the inside of his mouth, hot and cold together, evaporating into perfume on his tongue. Could actually smell the raw scent of alcohol...
"Tony?" Maya's voice. He didn't turned around, didn't answer. Talking to another human being was near the bottom of his list of priorities at the moment.
"Tone? You okay?" A hand on his arm, soft and hesitant. Tony turned then. Maya was standing next to him, a half-empty lowball glass in one hand, amber liquid and ice. Jack Daniels on the rocks; he could tell from the color and smell.
"I buried my best friend today." It sounded like someone else's voice, dull and empty and far away. "So, no, I'm not okay."
"It's cold out here," she said, sensibly, setting the glass down on the flat top of the railing. "You should come inside."
Tony didn't answer, eyes drawn instead to the half-full glass of whisky on the balcony rail, the long drop to the street beyond it. "Later," he said. "Leave me alone."
Maya took him by the shoulder, pulled him around to face her. "I don't think that would be a good idea," she said, and then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
Tony closed his eyes, one arm tightening involuntarily around her. No one had touched him in weeks, he realized. Not since Happy had died.
Maya's mouth tasted like Tennessee whisky, sharp and dizzying. As oblivion went, Tony decided, it would do.
He closed his eyes and deepened the kiss.