Chapter Text
His desk is covered in various sheets and files, strewn about, all of them in different stages of revision. Tony lets out a soft sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, still staring at the Accords as he tries to think of ways to make this better. Steve hadn't made it easy to defend them after he'd run off like that last week; it had taken all of Tony's influence just to convince the government that the fight in Siberia shouldn't be another thing to add to the list of criminal things that Steve had done.
The last thing that Steve needs is a felony assault charge.
The door clicks open, slow and easy, deliberate. He already knows who it is before he looks, but he makes sure regardless. "You haven't eaten yet, buddy," Bruce says, giving him a look as he steps forward with a tray of food that makes Tony's stomach growl with hunger. "I brought you some chicken nuggets, French fries, and a mix of fruits." Bruce places the tray down on the small patch of the desk that isn't covered in paperwork, leaning his hip against the table and looking down at Tony.
"Thanks, Brucie," Tony says, organizing the papers into neat stacks and pulling the tray over to him. "You didn't have to."
"Well, I sort of did," Bruce replies with a sad smile. "How are you holdin' up? Do you need help with the…" He gestures to the paperwork and Tony, although tempted, shakes his head no. He has to be the one to do this.
He just has to be.
Bruce sighs, and Tony can tell that he's about to say something, but he falters visibly. "We can help you, Tony."
Tony doesn't believe that, but he nods anyway. "I know," he says instead, "I'll tell you if I need help."
"How long has it been since you've been-"
"Don't," Tony says, his chest burning as he looks up at Bruce. He can't talk about that, can't let himself remember that, once, he was happy. He can't let himself remember the days that he used to spend laughing carelessly. If he does, he might forget that those days are gone and that now, he's alone and couldn't afford to let himself feel those things.
Bruce stops his sentence but it's clear on his face that he doesn't want to let this go just yet. "You know, Thor got classified as a caregiver once he came to the Earth. And I tested as a baseline, so I still got taught the basics of care-giving in high school. For god's sake, Tony, you can't keep refusing to regress. It's unhealthy and we both know it. Please, just... Take care of yourself."
Tony bites his tongue, trying to keep the quivering mess in his chest from bursting out. "I'm fine."
Bruce deflates, nodding. "Alright. Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me, okay? I'll see you later."
Tony watches him go, waiting until Bruce is gone until he drops his head to the desk. In and out. In and out. Something in his chest trembles and thrashes as he imagines letting himself be little again. He doesn't want to be little anymore. He doesn't want to be alone anymore.
He wants to forget.
Why can't the world just let him forget?
"Friday, initiate protocol 5," he says with the cold glass that covers his desk pressed against his forehead. His breath fogs it up with every exhale, but he doesn't care. The lights dim, and the hum of the different machines fades to silence. Soft music plays in the office and he slowly let the tension seep from his shoulders, not opening his eyes until he's sure that tears won't seep out from them. He doesn't want to cry- he's scared that if he does cry, he won't be able to stop.
He's so tired of crying.
He's spent so long with tears running down his face that if he'd collected them all in jars, he would probably have enough to fill an ocean by now.
The flip-phone in the drawer of the desk calls to him like a physical force, but he ignores it. He can't buckle now. If he picks that phone up, he knows that within a week the entire team of rogue avengers would be living in the compound with him and he isn't ready. Not yet. Not with images of blood splattered over his chest still haunting his dreams.
He is so afraid these days.
"Sir?" Friday calls, keeping her voice gentle like she knew to do during Protocol 5- a protocol which meant that, in simple terms, he's close to an overload and needs peace and quiet. "Your food is getting cold, and you have an appointment with Mister Everett Ross in an hour."
Tony let out a groan and sat up, beginning to pick at the food that Bruce brought him. He's going to need all the energy he can muster up if he's going to be meeting up with more government officials.
"How's T'Challa?" Tony asks the moment he walks in, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back of the chair before he takes a seat in front of Everett.
Everett nods, fiddling with a pen. "He's doing good. Dealt with a murderous but misunderstood cousin, opened up Wakanda to the world. He's doing… good." A faint smile passes over his face before he looks up and remembers the reason he's here in the first place and his face sobers. "So, Tony, how are you faring?"
"I'm fine," Tony replies, rubbing his palms over his bare arms, the sharp chill of the room making goose pimples to rise all over his arms. "What did you want to talk about?"
Everett opens the folder in his hands, passing it over without saying a word. "Thaddeus Ross is currently in prison and waiting for trial- at this rate with all the proof that we've got on him it's pretty much impossible for him to not get convicted, but we were wondering if you'd like to add another charge."
Tony stares at the pictures of himself that were taken as evidence, along with several pictures of a medical bay and syringes. "What-" he clears his throat to get the lump from his throat, "would the charge be?"
"Unethical human experimentation," Everett says after a few beats of overwhelming silence. "What he did was in no way legal, not to mention that it wasn't something you consented to."
The air is too thin and too thick all at once, sitting like tar in Tony's lungs as he doubles over.
He can't breathe.
There isn't enough air in the world for him to be able to breathe again.
"I don't- I don't want-" Tony stammers, but the words are blocky, and his tongue feels too heavy to control. He hugs himself, eyes wide as he blinks frantically.
Everett is at his side in an instant. He's used to this by now, after all, Tony isn't his first client nor his first nervous little.
He's used to having such an unstable client, Tony thinks bitterly. "Tony," Everett says, placing a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Breathe for me. We don't have to put that in if you don't want to. Just breathe."
Tony's face burns in shame as he clutches blindly at his chest, a wall of fire burning him up from the inside out.
Unethical human experimentation.
The fan is the only thing making any noise in the room, loud and unbearable as it keeps humming along as everything seems to tilt out of balance for Tony. The room is too dark, too small-
too much like Afghanistan and the underground lab-
and the only thing running through Tony's mind is how easily he could die right now, in this room.
Images of restraints and syringes flash through Tony's mind and his body, plagued with persistent trembles, crumples to the ground and he stays there on his knees with Everett whispering something he can't hear past the rush of wind in his ears. Tony's thunderstorm-like eyes stare at the gray tile floor, feeling bare and vulnerable in the small windowless room. If someone attacks now, he'll be helpless, just like he was before.
He doesn't want to die yet.
He doesn't want to pull himself back from the edge of death again. He's not sure if he has the energy to do so anymore.
All he has on is a worn gray Metallica shirt and baggy jeans, which won't protect him from a gunshot or a knife wound or even a solid punch from the right (super soldier) person. If T'Challa hadn't helped him from the Siberian bunker, Tony has no doubts that he would have died there.
When T'Challa finds him, he is ready to accept that his death is approaching and there is nothing to be done. Lying on the ground with his armor spread around him in pieces, he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and not open them again.
"Tony? Tony are you awake?" T’Challa asks, shaking Tony's shoulder gently, looking down at the battered man with concern. "Tony, I have both Barnes and Rogers. The fight is over, my friend."
The fight is never over, Tony wants to say as he looks up at T'Challa. The fight never ends. It will only end when the lights go out and Tony is out of the game- it'll only end when Tony dies.
He says none of those things, instead opting to take his time to wipe the blood from his face.
There is hesitation on T'Challa's face before he speaks again. "I can have them transported to Wakanda for the safety of both the American citizens and to further ensure that the soldier is no longer a danger."
Tony doesn't want to live anymore, nor does he have the energy to argue, so he sits up and gives T'Challa a nod. "Sure, go ahead."
He wishes that the king had left him to die, but when the Wakandan king offers him a hand, he has no other choice but to accept it and put one foot in front of the other like he'd been doing all his life. It isn't fair though.
Roughly 53 million die each year.
151,600 die each day.
6,316 die each hour.
105 per minute.
Almost 2 per second.
So why is he- a sinner, a reprobate, a broken and worthless machine- alive? Is death too merciful? Is oblivion too easy on his sinful soul? Is that why he must be forced to keep going despite the weight on his shoulders?
Is that why he must keep going- is his punishment not to die but to live in agony until he has paid off the debt of his mistakes?
He is so fucking tired.
Time passes like honey dripping between his fingers. His mind dissolves like stars exploding behind his eyes. His shoulders slowly stop quaking and the sensations return to his body in fragments.
When he opens his eyes again, he's still on his knees, the files open in front of Everett as he reviews them. Everett gives him a once-over. He coughs and shakes his head. "Sorry," he says to the silence, standing and pushing himself back onto the steel chair, exhausted beyond belief. "Where were we?"
Aside for the whole 'unethical human experimentation', of course, Tony thinks.
Everett doesn't mention the procedure that Thaddeus had forced Tony to undergo without asking if he'd like it, nor about the way that Tony spent hours thrashing around on the operating table, feeling like his insides were aflame with hellfire, screaming until his voice was hoarse. Everett doesn't bring up the way that Tony woke up feeling like he was back in Afghanistan, freshly operated on, feeling like his body was, once again, not completely his own.
"I might not be able to turn you back in time all that well, but I can certainly ensure that you don't keep aging forward. If this works, it might just be the next biggest thing on the market- well, perhaps littlest might be the best word for it," Thaddeus says with a laugh as Tony struggles against the restraints. "Stop struggling. This is what's best for you."
Thaddeus has injected him with a different version of the Extremis formula that hadn't been stabilized yet, one which was made solely to make sure that he would remain one age forever, a variant of the super soldier serum that made it impossible for Tony to die.
He'd tried.
He'd tested it out.
He'd failed.
Everett closes the meeting quickly, offering his hand to Tony and telling him that he'd keep in touch. He leaves behind a pamphlet with brightly colored letters on the front, as well as three sets of smiling couples on the cover.
Lonely? Then Little Haven might be for you! Little Haven is an agency whose main purpose is to match Littles and Caregivers together. It has been proven to have a high success rate, using different techniques- personality surveys, mathematical algorithms, and compatibility prediction. Don't be shy! Give us a call at 347-220-1730.
A wave of sickness washes over Tony as he stares at the pamphlet. It would be so easy to allow himself to regress, but he can't. Not when the world needs its hero, Iron Man. Not when his friends- is he even allowed to call them that anymore? - need him to defend them and make sure they're free.
He stumbles blindly out of the gray room, finding his way to the bathroom, where he presses himself into the tub. He doesn't turn the tap on, nor does he shed his clothes, but he lets his eyes slip close and waits for his mind to clear.
This time, it is Thor who comes. "I went to your lab to bring you sustenance, but as you were not there, I asked Lady Friday where you were. What are you doing in the tub, Anthony?" Thor asks, a smile pulling at his lips. Tony opens his eyes and gives him a small smile back. There are some things that cannot be explained to others without context, and really, climbing into an empty tub and staying there for hours isn't something even Tony could logic away.
"Honestly? I have no clue, but I liked the quiet," he responds with a shrug, taking Thor's offered hand. "And you don't have to keep calling Friday "Lady Friday". She's an AI."
"She is a lady," Thor says as if it is obvious. "She deserves the same respect as one." He hooks an arm around Tony's, walking him back to Tony's quarters silently. Tony keeps his gaze straight ahead, and Thor takes this as his chance to look over the young mortal, his heart aching in his chest as he sees the sorrow clear on the young one's face. When he was on Midgard last, Tony was not nearly quite this devastated or mournful; yes, he still had those woeful brown eyes, but his eyes are now so full of terror that has no place being there.
Thor doesn't know exactly what happened between Tony and Steve, but he knows enough of it to think that he should have been here. He was an Avenger and a part of the team- he should have been here, if not to take a side then at least to provide aid and care to both parties.
But that's the past and now all he can do is keep moving forward.
Tony takes his seat at the desk, and Thor gives him a soft smile that has an odd way of making Tony feel very small. "Whatcha smiling at?" Tony asks, and Thor shakes his head.
"Nothing," Thor says. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall with one shoulder, watching as Tony looks down at the mac and cheese, poking at it with his fork. "How did your meeting go?"
Tony shrugs. "It sucked. I mean. You found me in the fucking tub. I had a panic attack during the interview because Everett said, 'unethical human experimentation' and he left a stupid pamphlet. So, uh, yeah."
"A pamphlet?"
Tony gestures to the pamphlet on the bed, eating as Thor walks over to give it a look. "This agency sounds most helpful. Why not contact them?" Thor asks, perusing the contents.
There really is no easy way to explain it to someone else. Tony can't say "I'm afraid" because that'll lead to questions of "what are you afraid of?" and he doesn't know how to answer that question without bringing up Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, without mentioning the terror that had run through his veins as he was left in Siberia with a powered down suit and a broken arc reactor. He couldn't say "I'm not little" because everyone and their mommas know that he's a little at this point- gotta love news reporters, amirite?
And he can't say that he doesn't want to contact the stupid agency because he misses Steve either. Because he already knows that Thor will give him a sad pitying smile, trying to offer comfort that Tony doesn't know how to accept any more.
Tony wants to curl into a ball and forget that the world exists these days. But he can't do that.
He has the world on his shoulders and he doesn't know how to put it down. Carrying the weight is the only thing he knows how to do anymore. And it hurts but what hurts more is the disappointment in his team members' eyes. What hurts more is the feeling of failure, of watching his dreams slip between his fingers like honey, of watching everything burn to ashes in front of him.
"I'm busy" is the excuse that he settles for in the end. Thor can see right through that, Tony knows, but Thor doesn't comment on it. That's one of the good things about Thor: he's good at pretending not to understand, often going for the act of obliviousness for the sake of either humor or the other person's dignity. Instead of calling Tony out, he nods, still reading through the pamphlet. "Perhaps, when the time is right, I will give this agency a visit. I'd like a little one of my own someday."
Tony gives him a small, sad smile. "You'd be a good dad."
Thor perks up at that, hope and relief written across his face. "You believe so?"
"I know so." Tony's been around Thor long enough to know how he is, how he tends to adopt every stray he can find, believing in the best in them even when they only show their worst. It was what made Thor cling onto the idea of Loki being redeemable even after Loki had tried his damnedest to shoot down that idea, lashing out with claws and teeth, terrified of being controlled and terrified of being alone.
Thor ended up being correct, of course. Loki did end up being redeemable, and after spending time on Sakaar among other similar people, healing under the watchful eye of En Dwi Gast- the Grandmaster, he was called- he was freed from the mind control that he was under and healed from the scars on his soul left by magical mind-tampering.
Loki reminds Tony an awful lot of himself sometimes, with the faux confidence and the sarcastic comment always ready to roll off his tongue. But the difference is that Tony still has panic attacks and can't bring himself to trust anyone. He can't allow himself to laugh like Loki now can.
He's so plagued by nightmares that he's forgotten how to dream.
Friday comes alive in the monitor, breaking the quiet peace that had filled the room. Thor blinks and Tony turns back to his meal. "Thor, Bruce is requesting your presence."
"Ah, thank you, Lady Friday. Inform him that I will be there soon." Thor turns to give Tony a look, half assuring and half pleading. "If you need me, have Lady Friday inform me."
Tony nods.
It's a lie, of course, he knows that if he needs anyone he'll suffer silently in his room. He knows that nothing short of an attack would make him call for help, and even then, it would be with great reluctance.
However, he knows that if he needs someone to comfort him, Thor would come. That is what bothers him most about the two. If he called for either Bruce or Thor, he knows that they would come, eyes filled with concern and gentleness that Tony doesn't deserve. He knows that if he was to reach for Thor right now that Thor would stop and stay even though Bruce is calling for him.
He knows that it's really that simple.
One gesture, one word, and he could get what he needs.
But he doesn't deserve it.
There's a meeting tomorrow to attend, more paperwork to fill out, and a world that needs saving. And no matter what others say, a little cannot be the one to save it.