theatrical-muse: Euthanasia.
IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ: This contains some triggery subjects (drug/alcohol abuse, overdose) so please don't read if that's not your cup of tea.
Also, much thanks to Nanda, who helped me in feeding this plot bunny. Her boys are used with love although they might hunt me down and strangle me later.
Despite Howard's and Maria's wishes, it has never been a secret that Tony Stark likes to lead a fast life. The whole world knows about his flashy and fast cars, his even faster motorcycles, the new jets and yachts, the parties he goes to, the girls he sees. They talk even more about the cars he crashes, the motorcycles that he totals, the fights he gets into, the break-ups that go public despite the best PR team in the country.
Tony hadn't cared about what people said about him while his parents were alive to see it, though, and he starts to care even less after they're gone. Because he's angry, and they're gone, and there are days when the grief blinds him and he just doesn't. care. Because it hadn't been the best type of attention, but it was attention, and sometimes that had been enough. He had existed above a global corporation, and it hadn't mattered if he was a billionaire prodigy in a school full of people older than him. He was Howard's son, and Maria's son, and some days that had been all he wanted. No kingdoms to inherit, no weight of a name that he has never been able to carry properly.
He had just been their son. Their boy.
He was theirs.
Was.
That was the keyword, wasn't it? They're now gone, and it no longer matters. He just wants to go back to Europe. He just wants to get lost there again, how he had done in the years after their deaths; he doesn't want a kingdom, he doesn't want the name that he had gone back to a few months ago. Because a few months ago it had been easy to focus on the fact that he was 21, and he had a responsibility to take care of. He was the Stark heir, after all; he was the legacy, and despite the rebellious attitude that had glued to him in his teen years, a part of him would always want to please his father.
Because this is what he had been born for, hadn't it? It's his responsibility. It's his job. It's his life.
Except, now it's Christmas. It's snowing, lights illuminate the whole city, and even if the house is void of any decor that would indicate that the holidays have arrived, it just hurts. Things shouldn't be so empty. The house shouldn't be so quiet. His mother should be planning the Christmas party with Jarvis. His father should be in his lab. It's wrong. It's all wrong, so Tony replaces Christmas carols with hard rock that makes the walls throughout the estate rumble with guitar rifts. Instead of a Christmas party that hosts all of New York's high society, he just sits in the living room surrounded by pieces of a robot that he has built and pulled apart three times already, because there's something wrong with it. He's convinced of it, and he just has to fix it.
But he can't fix it.
He can't fix it.
So, he works. And he drinks, he drinks scotch that is much older than he is, and he takes some old pills that he had stashed away since his time in Europe. They numb the pain, and they make the music thump thump thump in his veins, and somewhere in between he laughs. He just laughs, because the robot is forgotten, so he drinks some more.
There's scotch, and pills, and
and
and he forgets. He forgets, for a moment he just forgets. His mother will probably call him into the kitchen soon. His father will show up soon, but meanwhile the music keeps pumping through him.
And the grief is forgotten, the world is forgotten.
The world just turns black.
Except, someone is talking. Someone is yelling. Wake up, they say. Wake up, wake up WAKE UP.
He just wants to sleep.
He can't work his mouth to say it, though, so he doesn't bother; he's floating, and even if he hears his name, he doesn't care.
WAKE UP
It hurts to breathe. It hurts to swallow, and the second he tries to open his eyes he's almost sure he'll go blind from how bright the room is. His brain sluggishly works up curses and complaints, but his throat hurts too much to voice them.
He's tired. He's just so tired.
But he remembers music; he suddenly remembers waiting for his parents, and the music, and...
Tony finally opens his eyes, even if the act alone exhausts him, and he finds himself curled on his side with his face half buried into his pillow. Moving is an ordeal on its own, but he glances up expecting to find himself in his room, but someone is watching him.
It's not Maria.
It's not Howard.
Instead, there's Gideon, staring at him as if waiting for some sign of life. Watching him, as if he'll disappear if he were to even blink.
It's wrong, though. That's all Tony can think; it's all wrong. The equation doesn't fit, this is wrong. Suddenly he just feels as if he's six and Uncle Gideon is there to help him feel better, but there's a hollowness in his stomach that he doubts Gideon will be able to erase. It makes him nauseous, and Tony clenches to his pillow as if it's the only stable thing that will stop the room from moving because his mother should be there. Jarvis should be there.
His father...
"...is it Christmas?" Tony asks quietly, so quietly that it's barely audible among the monitors surrounding him.
Gideon hears him, though, of course he does, but he doesn't answer right away. Not until he wraps a hand on Tony's wrist, careful of the IV but he hols on as if he's checking his pulse. "It passed already," he finally answers, his own voice quiet and hoarse. If he notices the way that Tony's body seems to relax against the bed, as if in relief that now the worst has passed, he doesn't say anything about it. He just tightens his hold on him for a moment.
Tony wants to talk, maybe ask what happened, but he knows. Deep down, he knows. He wasn't the youngest person at MIT for nothing, after all.
For all his brilliance, though, he just can't figure out how to disappear. He just wants the mess of emotions in him to be over. He just wants out of this misery that he figured he had left behind in Europe, but that followed him along anyway.
Why can't he just disappear?
The door flings open before either of them can say anything, and Obadiah stares at Tony for a moment as if he's unsure he believes that Tony's awake. There's a flash in his eyes and a set in his jaw that is so familiar, so like Howard that it makes Tony's heart clench, but he can't look away.
'I'm sorry,' he wants to say just how he would tell Howard.
'I didn't mean to,' how he would tell Maria.
'I won't do it again,' how he would tell Jarvis.
Instead, he just tries to swallow down the thick knot in his throat. He tries to pretend the weight on his chest doesn't exist, and he looks out towards the snow falling outside his window as if that will somehow fix everything.
As if by some sort of miracle it will help him disappear.
Later on he'll deal with the fall out. He'll ask what the cover up story is, because he already knows that they can't admit that the Stark prince overdosed.
He's Howard's son, after all. He's Maria's son.
They're gone now, so that makes him...what?
So, he just closes his eyes as if that will help him disappear. As if that's enough.
It's the only thing he can do, after all.
Also, much thanks to Nanda, who helped me in feeding this plot bunny. Her boys are used with love although they might hunt me down and strangle me later.
Despite Howard's and Maria's wishes, it has never been a secret that Tony Stark likes to lead a fast life. The whole world knows about his flashy and fast cars, his even faster motorcycles, the new jets and yachts, the parties he goes to, the girls he sees. They talk even more about the cars he crashes, the motorcycles that he totals, the fights he gets into, the break-ups that go public despite the best PR team in the country.
Tony hadn't cared about what people said about him while his parents were alive to see it, though, and he starts to care even less after they're gone. Because he's angry, and they're gone, and there are days when the grief blinds him and he just doesn't. care. Because it hadn't been the best type of attention, but it was attention, and sometimes that had been enough. He had existed above a global corporation, and it hadn't mattered if he was a billionaire prodigy in a school full of people older than him. He was Howard's son, and Maria's son, and some days that had been all he wanted. No kingdoms to inherit, no weight of a name that he has never been able to carry properly.
He had just been their son. Their boy.
He was theirs.
Was.
That was the keyword, wasn't it? They're now gone, and it no longer matters. He just wants to go back to Europe. He just wants to get lost there again, how he had done in the years after their deaths; he doesn't want a kingdom, he doesn't want the name that he had gone back to a few months ago. Because a few months ago it had been easy to focus on the fact that he was 21, and he had a responsibility to take care of. He was the Stark heir, after all; he was the legacy, and despite the rebellious attitude that had glued to him in his teen years, a part of him would always want to please his father.
Because this is what he had been born for, hadn't it? It's his responsibility. It's his job. It's his life.
Except, now it's Christmas. It's snowing, lights illuminate the whole city, and even if the house is void of any decor that would indicate that the holidays have arrived, it just hurts. Things shouldn't be so empty. The house shouldn't be so quiet. His mother should be planning the Christmas party with Jarvis. His father should be in his lab. It's wrong. It's all wrong, so Tony replaces Christmas carols with hard rock that makes the walls throughout the estate rumble with guitar rifts. Instead of a Christmas party that hosts all of New York's high society, he just sits in the living room surrounded by pieces of a robot that he has built and pulled apart three times already, because there's something wrong with it. He's convinced of it, and he just has to fix it.
But he can't fix it.
He can't fix it.
So, he works. And he drinks, he drinks scotch that is much older than he is, and he takes some old pills that he had stashed away since his time in Europe. They numb the pain, and they make the music thump thump thump in his veins, and somewhere in between he laughs. He just laughs, because the robot is forgotten, so he drinks some more.
There's scotch, and pills, and
and
and he forgets. He forgets, for a moment he just forgets. His mother will probably call him into the kitchen soon. His father will show up soon, but meanwhile the music keeps pumping through him.
And the grief is forgotten, the world is forgotten.
The world just turns black.
Except, someone is talking. Someone is yelling. Wake up, they say. Wake up, wake up WAKE UP.
He just wants to sleep.
He can't work his mouth to say it, though, so he doesn't bother; he's floating, and even if he hears his name, he doesn't care.
WAKE UP
It hurts to breathe. It hurts to swallow, and the second he tries to open his eyes he's almost sure he'll go blind from how bright the room is. His brain sluggishly works up curses and complaints, but his throat hurts too much to voice them.
He's tired. He's just so tired.
But he remembers music; he suddenly remembers waiting for his parents, and the music, and...
Tony finally opens his eyes, even if the act alone exhausts him, and he finds himself curled on his side with his face half buried into his pillow. Moving is an ordeal on its own, but he glances up expecting to find himself in his room, but someone is watching him.
It's not Maria.
It's not Howard.
Instead, there's Gideon, staring at him as if waiting for some sign of life. Watching him, as if he'll disappear if he were to even blink.
It's wrong, though. That's all Tony can think; it's all wrong. The equation doesn't fit, this is wrong. Suddenly he just feels as if he's six and Uncle Gideon is there to help him feel better, but there's a hollowness in his stomach that he doubts Gideon will be able to erase. It makes him nauseous, and Tony clenches to his pillow as if it's the only stable thing that will stop the room from moving because his mother should be there. Jarvis should be there.
His father...
"...is it Christmas?" Tony asks quietly, so quietly that it's barely audible among the monitors surrounding him.
Gideon hears him, though, of course he does, but he doesn't answer right away. Not until he wraps a hand on Tony's wrist, careful of the IV but he hols on as if he's checking his pulse. "It passed already," he finally answers, his own voice quiet and hoarse. If he notices the way that Tony's body seems to relax against the bed, as if in relief that now the worst has passed, he doesn't say anything about it. He just tightens his hold on him for a moment.
Tony wants to talk, maybe ask what happened, but he knows. Deep down, he knows. He wasn't the youngest person at MIT for nothing, after all.
For all his brilliance, though, he just can't figure out how to disappear. He just wants the mess of emotions in him to be over. He just wants out of this misery that he figured he had left behind in Europe, but that followed him along anyway.
Why can't he just disappear?
The door flings open before either of them can say anything, and Obadiah stares at Tony for a moment as if he's unsure he believes that Tony's awake. There's a flash in his eyes and a set in his jaw that is so familiar, so like Howard that it makes Tony's heart clench, but he can't look away.
'I'm sorry,' he wants to say just how he would tell Howard.
'I didn't mean to,' how he would tell Maria.
'I won't do it again,' how he would tell Jarvis.
Instead, he just tries to swallow down the thick knot in his throat. He tries to pretend the weight on his chest doesn't exist, and he looks out towards the snow falling outside his window as if that will somehow fix everything.
As if by some sort of miracle it will help him disappear.
Later on he'll deal with the fall out. He'll ask what the cover up story is, because he already knows that they can't admit that the Stark prince overdosed.
He's Howard's son, after all. He's Maria's son.
They're gone now, so that makes him...what?
So, he just closes his eyes as if that will help him disappear. As if that's enough.
It's the only thing he can do, after all.