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Clint
Clint was responsible for the tally chart proudly displayed on the kitchen fridge, a hand doodled A3 sheet of paper displaying the results of their continuous prank wars. Every time one of the team one-upped another member, they got a mark next to their tally chart.
It was childish, sure, but the Avengers deserved some reality. They were like typical college roommates underneath their costumes and all that.
Natasha had no marks, stating that she didn’t have time for such juvenile activities, Clint had fourteen marks (some of which may have been snuck on so that he was ahead of Stark, he was the one who had written it after all), Tony twelve, Bruce three and Thor had two. He argued that he should have at least nine, but the others insisted that eating all of the pop-tarts in the tower didn’t count as a prank, it was just impolite and in bad taste. Steve, of course, usually didn’t have time for such things, agreeing with Natasha that pranks were juvenile. However, he did have six marks and had been chuckling along with the rest of them when he’d replaced Tony’s favourite coffee pot with a teapot shaped like Mrs Potts from Beauty and the Beast. Trust Steve to love a romantic fairy tale full of chivalry and teamwork. Not to mention the fact that he was the one who had filled Bruce’s lab with balloons on his birthday.
Clint swore down that he was going to win the prank war, no matter what.
What he didn’t realise was that Tony had set up booby-traps along the vents around his lab, waiting for the next time Clint tried to sneak up on him when he was busy inventing.
Thor
Thor has never written a tally chart. He sees no use for such a time consuming Migardian concept, for there are far more advanced ways of keeping track of numbers back in Asgard. He was a god, and above such things. However, he was always full of childish glee and wonder when Clint placed a rarely earned line on his section of the ‘Prank War’ communal tally chart.
Forget Loki, Thor should have been the trickster.
Steve
Steve wasn’t really one for tally charts either. Although he took one for the team and resigned himself to filling out the other Avenger’s paperwork, he really wasn’t one for numeracy. Education in the 40’s was nothing like it was now, and although he had grasped the basic concept of numeracy, he had no time for algebra, graphs or statistical analysis.
However, when the Avengers were going through their weekly argument about what film to watch during movie night on Friday, he had written down everyone’s suggestions in a table. Then, every week he would ask people to place their votes for this week’s film in the coloured pencil of the week. (They were not allowed to vote for their own movie suggestion, of course, a rule that Clint often ignored). This worked quite well and allowed them to avoid arguments on the whole, and it halted Tony’s constant snarky comments about him using Tony’s money to buy ‘kiddie pencils for his colouring books’. Steve really had had enough of informing Tony that they were not kid’s pencils, but artist-grade watercolour pencils. But that was another argument.
Natasha
Natasha had always been one for strategy and she had a penchant for numbers that rivalled Bruce’s. She kept a mental tally of her kill-list (in regards to the bad-guys that she had offed) and she was always happy to lord it over Clint that she had a higher percentage of one-shot kills than he did.
Of course, Clint argued black and blue that her calculations were incorrect, although he was always silenced by one of her trademark death glares. He knew that if he argued with her, castration would be a likely end result.
Although to be on the safe side, she would have to start writing her kills down on an actual tally chart in the back of her diary, just so that she could prove Clint wrong and shut him up once and for all.
Tony
Tony used tally charts for a far darker reason than the others - as a form of self-harm and control. His entire body was crisscrossed with thousands of cuts, each half an inch long. Each set of five tally marks was separated from the next by just five millimetres of milk white skin, or puffy red skin depending on whether that particular area of cuts was fresh or old.
It had all started out by accident. Well, not exactly by accident, but Tony hadn’t had any intention of cutting charts all over his skin.
Not to begin with.
It had all begun with fifteen cuts in a row, which he had gouged out of his stomach. They were only small, as it took a lot of courage and determination to go through with deliberately harming yourself. Usually Tony did his best to avoid pain, but he bit his lip and dug the blade as deep as he could bare, letting out a small whimper as yellow fat tissue and red muscle appeared beneath his flesh, immediately drowned out by a pool of crimson blood. Once he had made the first cut, the next fourteen had followed relatively easily, some shallower than others, but still enough to hurt.
See, the cuts represented the innocent civilians that had died that day, due to Tony’s failures.
JARVIS had warned him that a Doombot was approaching a nearby café, and also an art gallery full of schoolchildren. Tony had made the only choice he possibly could. He shot his repulsors and managed to re-direct the bot away from the gallery. It had been just enough to change its trajectory marginally.
The Doombot hit the café instead.
The public had heralded him a hero, praising him for his quick thinking and for saving the children – hysterical mothers and fathers were releasing TV interviews thanking Iron Man for protecting their loved ones. That didn’t make up for the fact that two elderly couples, five business men and women, four waitresses and a pregnant woman had died instead.
Tony made a cut for each of them, the one for the murdered foetus the deepest cut of them all.
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They were penance, in a way. He didn’t want their lives to go unforgotten, or to carry on unpunished for killing fifteen people. Yes he had saved forty kids, but who was he to play god and decide that the fifteen other innocent civilians didn’t deserve to live?
Tony had cried himself to sleep that night, drowning himself in a bottle when the burning pain from his cuts became too much. He knew that he deserved the pain, but that didn’t stop the fact that the cuts were stinging and prickling uncomfortably. He was too weak to go through with it and blacking out was the next best option.
The next time Tony had cut, it had only been two times. A young couple on their honeymoon in New York had been collateral.
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The two cuts didn’t seem enough to make up for the loss of such young lives, so Tony had spent hours looking into how many people had died due to him over all of the Avengers missions.
It turned out that there were a lot.
Over 600, actually. These deaths had taken place over a long period of time, admittedly, and many would have said that the deaths were not the Avenger’s fault, but were down to the various supervillains trying to take out New York and various other cities. Tony didn’t see it that way.
By the time he was done carving over one hundred and twenty new sets of tallys, which coincidentally had taken him all night, he was a shaking, hysterical mess. He would have got it done quicker, but he had passed out at least three times from the pain and the blood loss was making his hands shake so violently that he kept losing his grip on his penknife.
After that Tony had purchased a small set of scalpel blades, the type that come in a small tub for artists to use when paper-cutting or card making. They were easy to grip and more convenient – every time the blades were dulled from overuse, he was safe in the knowledge that there would be at least a few more blades in the pack.
The packs were travel sized and he could easily sneak them in a pocket, or even inside his jeans or under his suit.
Convenience was key, especially when the need to cut arose swiftly after a ‘failed’ mission.
He’d even stashed a few spare blades in the cistern of one of the communal toilets in the Quinet.
You know, just in case.
Things escalated quickly from there.
Soon his entire stomach was covered with cuts, without a single inch of unbroken skin, so he had moved onto his sides.
After that it was his hips. Then his thighs. Then his shoulders and the top of his arms.
Tony was always careful not to cut anywhere that would be visible if he wore trousers and a short sleeved t-shirt, but he was beginning to run out of space.
And what made matters worse was that he knew there should be more marks on his body. He deserved more pain, to cut himself more. He had only been able to cut for the people he knew had died due to him, but realistically Tony knew that there had to be thousands more. Maybe even hundreds of thousands who had died at his hand, from the weapons he had created.
For the first time, Tony wondered if what he was doing was enough.
Maybe next time he would just go for one cut.
A deep one.
Running all the way down his arm, severing his veins and arteries so that he would bleed out once and for all.
It would be no less than he deserved.
Tony pushed the thought aside and turned back to the new arrows he was developing for Clint. He needed to keep busy, to do something useful. It was the least he could do.
Once Tony’s calves, ankles, feet and shoulders had been covered, Tony was reduced to a whole new all-time-low.
The first cut to his penis had almost made him black out from pain, but by the time he had sliced the twelve tally marks that he had earnt along his length, a sweet sense of satisfaction took over.
He deserved the agony and so what if it hurt to piss and wear boxers for the next week.
Those twelve lives were worth more than a little pain.
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This was closely followed by seven cuts to his balls.
Tony really did black out that time.
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The mission had been a nightmare.
Each of the Avengers had returned back to the tower battered, dejected and exhausted.
Once again they had been able to save the day, along with the fire and other emergency services, but their stupid-vengeful-villain of the week had managed to kill thirty people before Tony had been able to reach the scene in his suit and save the day. Thirty. That was six more sets of five.
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Tony sat curled up against the headboard of his bed, frantically scouring his body for an area that wasn’t already scarred. He had a rule that he wouldn’t’ cut over existing scars, which would be disrespectful to the dead they represented.
The problem was that there wasn’t enough room on his body to make the required cuts.
Only a few areas of skin remained unblemished, and they would all be visible if Tony wore a long sleeved shirt – he had long since given up on the short sleeve t-shirt rule. There was simply too much blood on his hands. Tony really was the merchant of death that the media branded him as.
When asked, he had insisted that old age was creeping up on him and that he was feeling the cold more than usual. It was enough to stop the constant questioning about why Tony walked around his centrally-heated tower in long-sleeved t-shirts and jumpers. Whenever one of the team pointed out that he was sweating due to the many layers he was wearing, he simply snarked at them and pointed out that he could wear whatever he damn pleased in his own tower.
But now the only available areas were his hands, his face and his neck. Even his back had been slashed to pieces now. The cuts there were wonky due to the area being hard to reach, even with the use of a mirror, but the exquisite pain of cutting the sensitive flesh over his spine was worth it.
Tony let out a cry of anguish when he realised that he simply wouldn’t be able to cut this time. The team couldn't find out.
The idea was paralyzing, crippling in its intensity.
He’d always been able to cut when the need arose and Tony found himself beginning to hyperventilate as fear bore down on him. He was a failure. A pathetic waste of space who deserved nothing but pain, pain, pain.
Tony screwed his eyes tight shut and leant forward, curling himself into a tight ball and drawing in too quick, sharp breaths. He couldn’t not cut. He couldn’t.
That was it. Tony was going to have to kill himself.
It was the only option left.
With a sigh he ordered JARVIS to switch off all of his cameras and security feeds in the room. His AI didn’t need to see this and he didn’t want the rest of the team to view the footage of him ending his pathetic life. They didn’t deserve any more trauma in their lives. Tony had already installed a self-harm protocol into JARVIS, which automatically muted him and stopped him from informing the other Avengers of Tony’s actions, but he had never planned for this.
No matter how disgusted he was with himself, Tony had never really been suicidal. Not very often, anyway.
It seemed that the time had come though.
But first, Tony would drown himself in whiskey and vodka until the pain stopped and it became easier to slip away. He’d slice his arms until the agony came to an end and his body simply couldn’t take any more.
Tony can see the headlines now.
“Infamous Mass Murderer Tony Stark Atones For His Sins – Suicide Exclusive.”
Tony was stark naked, running his fingers over his raised scars, a fifth of the way through his second bottle. It had taken him half an hour to work up the nerve to do it. Pathetic. Bracing himself, he made a five inch long gash up his arm, cutting through layers of flesh, muscle and fat.
Tony only paused when his bedroom door swung to reveal Clint, Bruce and Steve.
He’d forgotten to lock the door.
He couldn’t do anything right, even committing suicide in peace was beyond him. Some genius, huh.
“Hey Tone, it’s time for game night. You promised that you’d join us this ti-SHIT! Tony!” Clint was the first to react, sprinting forward and grabbing the knife Tony was using out of his hands. Tony scrabbled frantically at the archer, desperately trying to claw back his only lifeline. Or deathline. Whatever, like it mattered. Tony was beyond semantics right now.
“No! Please! I need-”
“It’s ok, Tony. It’s ok. We’re here now, we’ve got you. Shhhh, it’s ok.” Bruce was talking to him in the calmest voice he possessed, pressing a cloth to Tony’s arm and applying enough pressure to make it impossible to get away.
“NO! STOP! Please! Bruce…I need to-” Tony was cut off by another hitching sob and he startled weakly as Steve pulled him into his arms, rocking him and crying into his shoulder.
Why on earth was Cap crying? Couldn’t he see that this was for the best? That this was what Tony deserved?
“Tony, oh Tony. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m here now. I’m here. I’ll help you get through this, we all will.” Steve cried into his curly hair, kissing his forehead gently and massaging Tony’s shoulders as Bruce set to work applying steri-strips to the deep gash in Tony’s arm.
He’d cut so deep that he could barely feel it, the nerves damaged beyond repair.
“No please, I need to-I have to do this. I can’t cut anymore. I can’t. It hurts so bad, and there’s not enough room. There’ll never be enough room. I’ve killed too many people, can’t you see?” Tony was crying hysterically now, his words jumbled as he began to lose consciousness.
“No Tony, you haven’t killed anyone. It wasn’t your fault. Shhh, it’s ok now. You don’t have to punish yourself anymore!” Clint said, rubbing Tony’s back now that he had disposed of the knife.
“I can’t. I can’t! You don’t understand! There’s not enough room.” Tony pulled away from everyone’s grip, knowing that he didn’t deserve their comfort. He was beyond hysterical.
He was rocking uncontrollably now, tearing brutally at his hair as he sobbed and half screamed into the crook of his arms and over his knees. “I need more space, I need to-what am I going to do? I need more room. I need to cut. I need to! I NEED to!” Tony’s breaths were coming in frantic gasps and he let out a howl of despair that made Clint physically recoil.
The archer knelt down next to Tony, scooping the sobbing man into his chest and rocking with him, stroking soft yet firm circles into his back as Steve took his other side, both men cradling him in their arms.
“It’s ok, Tony. You don’t have to punish yourself anymore. You have done enough already. Too much. You don’t deserve to be punished any more than the rest of us do. None of this was your fault. C’mon, let me clean you up, you’re going into shock. I’ve got you, Tony, you’re safe now. It wasn’t your fault.” Bruce finished bandaging Tony’s arm before the genius could really realise what he was doing. Tears were streaming down the scientist’s face as he finished up, watching Clint’s uncharacteristically gentle movements as he cradled Stark.
Bruce was no stranger to self-loathing and knew that Tony was going to need help, and lots of love and reassurances. The idea that his friend had been hurting for so long tore him apart.How had they missed this?
It was with a heavy heart that he left the room and began making some calls. He started by setting up a counselling session for Tony with his own therapist. The team could take it from there.
Steve and Clint stayed with Tony all night, mumbling reassurances into Tony’s hair and stroking his back as he threw up and trembled, expelling the alcohol that he had previously consumed. Once Tony was done they cleaned him up, coaxed him into drinking some water and gingerly laid him down in his bed, both men acting as Tony’s big spoon and protecting him from himself.
Tony slept the best he had in weeks, wondering for a brief second if they were right.
What if he had punished himself enough?
The next morning Tony woke to the smell of freshly ground coffee and the tiniest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips as he accepted the mug that Clint was handing him. He was still cradled in Steve’s arms and he allowed himself to be comforted for the first time in a long time, burying his face in the super soldier’s chest and nuzzling him.
Whenever his hand reached out to his bandaged arm, Steve would bat it away gently, seemingly realising that Tony was feeling the urge to cut again, or to dig at his newest wound and hurt himself more.
He stayed with Tony all day, allowing the genius to cry himself into fitful bouts of sleep until eventually Tony seemed to come round, excusing himself to shower and clean himself up.
It was a good sign if nothing else.
Bruce
Bruce admired his handiwork and with a proud sigh of relief, he stood up and tucked a leather bound notebook under his arms, making his way over to the elevator, “hey J, can I hitch a ride to Tony’s lab?”
“Of course, Master Banner. My pleasure.”
Bruce was apprehensive, tapping his fingers against the railings in the radiator as he wondered whether he had made the right decision in doing this for his friend, but there was no going back now. Not after he had poured so many of hours into the book, both in terms of writing and background research for it. He was a scientist, methodical and good at research, but that didn’t mean that looking up every life that Tony had saved on their archives and in the news didn’t take a lot of time. A LOT of time.
But in Bruce’s opinion, it was time well spent. He had spent five sleepless, caffeine-fuelled nights ala Stark, pouring over his tablet, going over their records. Each page of the notebook had been filled with a date, or many dates depending on the page, a set of tally marks and a brief description of the event where Tony had saved a life. Over three quarters of the book was full with Bruce’s tiny, trademark scrawl. There were hundreds of tally marks per page.
Only one of the tally marks had been given a name tag though, beyond a location and a brief description of what the life-threatening event had involved.
It read ‘Bruce Banner. I don’t know if you will remember this, Tony, but you saved my life one night. It was after I Hulked-out and nearly killed Nat. I was in a dark place that night, Tony. The idea that I could have hurt Natasha was too much for me to bear. I had a gun in my hand, in the lab, and was about to do it when you walked in and just chatted to me. I think you knew that I needed someone to be there for me, to talk to. A distraction. I was worried that you saw me sneak the gun back into its drawer, but you never said anything. I guess what I am trying to say is that yes, your weapons may have caused a lot of deaths. And as a team, we have a hell of a lot of collateral to pay for one day, but the responsibility does not rest on your shoulders. You are a great man, Tony. A hero. The only one who can’t see that is you. So I have started this notebook to show you that the people you have saved are worth a tally mark as well. Just not a cut one, ok? You can carry it on from here. I’m sure you’ll fill this book in no time. Let me know when you need a second notebook. Love Bruce.”
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When Tony had read the notebook for the first time, Bruce having handed it to him with a small smile accompanied by a brief hug, he had cried for a solid hour.
But they were happy tears, so Tony didn’t mind.
Tony, Mark Two
Tony smiled, nibbling the tip of his biro absently. He’d just drawn three sets of five tallies in his notebook, |||| |||| ||||, hands still shaking slightly from the adrenaline-high produced by his last mission. It felt surreal, coming back from an Assemble and turning to a pen instead of his usual set of razors, blades and penknives, but he had to admit that this was a distinct improvement.
With the help of his suit, Tony had been able to aerially support his team, and had singlehandedly floored a ginormous robotic duck (don’t ask) before it’d had the chance to take out the fifteen locals enjoying an afternoon coffee in the café below. Even Tony would admit that a coffee fix wasn’t worth dying for. Although it was a close call.
Tony closed the notebook and placed it on his desk, stroking its cover fondly as he stretched out his back, rolled his shoulders and took a deep sip of his own coffee. The café owner he’d saved had offered Tony a lifetime supply of coffee from his café, as if Tony couldn’t pay for it himself. Tony hadn’t had the heart to decline though, and was sipping from his takeaway cup.
The man’s gratitude had been humbling, especially when he told Tony how thankful he was that he’d be able to return to his husband and kids when he got home. It wasn’t just his life he had saved, it was theirs as well, in a way.
For the first time in a long time, he realised that everything was going to be alright from now on. He hadn't felt the urge to cut in over a week.