When they tell Tony about their deaths, it feels wrong. Sure, he and Howard have been at odds nearly all of Tony's life. Certainly for the last five years. Tony feels like he should be happy to be out from under that man's eye and shadow, but he knows he never will be. Not really. Howard being dead doesn't change anything.
All it does is make him profoundly sad in a way he didn't think he could be. He knew he'd mourn Maria's death, when it came, but he never thought Howard's death would make him cry. He never thought learning that Howard was gone would drive him to inescapable sorrow at the bottom of multiple bottles. He never thought staring at that memorial photo and those closed caskets would lead him down that same road they crashed on, chasing his own doom as though seeking answers and release in equal measure.
He drives past the place where they crashed four times that night, head already buzzed, top down to get a little extra fresh air because he knows he needs it. Knows he shouldn't be behind the wheel. Knows this is one of the stupidest fucking things he ever done. But he needs it. He needs it the same way he needs another shot. Three more shots.
So he pulls off the road a bit of a ways up, climbs up to sit on the back of the front seats, his feet firmly planted in the driver's seat, and unscrews the lid on the bottle of vodka he shouldn't be touting around in his car. The bottle that shouldn't already be half empty.
He wants to be a bottle half full kind of guy, if he's being honest with himself.
He doesn't have a shot glass, so he takes a few swigs, grimacing as the burn of the liquor spreads through his chest and gut. He looks at the bottle, then shrugs and knocks back the rest, uncaring at this point.
Because really, what does he have left? Does he really want to take over his father's company? Does he really want to live perpetually in the shadow of a man who never once told him he was proud of him? Can Tony stand to spend his adult years constantly striving to make a name for himself under the weight of his father's legacy, all the while forced to remember that the man never uttered those three little words every son wants to hear from their parents?
All he has left of Howard are memories of being forgotten, stories of being unwanted, instances of being turned aside. He can't remember Howard ever hugging him. Or offering him a handshake or a high five. To this day, Tony doesn't fully know if he's ever known Howard's touch in any way but the firm grip on the back of his neck, guiding him through a room of wealthy business partners, the hiss of a controlled voice in his ear reminding him to not fuck this up.
For the good of the company, of course.
And Maria. He loves her with his whole soul. His mother was everything she could have been, given the circumstances. She defended her husband, tooth and nail. She fought for the company and her family. She gave Tony affection, occasionally, and she recognized that he was her child. That he needed comfort from her. That he needed her love. She gave that to him. She was, of course like everything else in her life, quite sparing with it, but she did give him love.
And, starved for it as he was, Tony bent himself into whatever shape Maria requested, if it meant he could feel human. Could feel love. He would be the good, dignified little rich boy. Not for Howard's sake, but for Maria's love.
He knows how fucked up it is. He knows his relationship with his parents was toxic on all fronts. He knows it was parasitic and wrong and he knows if he just could get through this period of mourning, he could be better than that.
Better than them.
Right now, the vodka is keeping him from seeing every side of this puzzle, and his mind is far too foggy to recognize that he's actively killing himself already. That he's destroying future Tony's chances. He's wrecking everything right here and now, but he's too far gone to realize it.
He tosses the empty bottle to the ground and sinks into the driver's seat of his car, heart pounding in his ears as he grips the steering wheel. Something in him screams to stop. He can't do this. Not here. Not now. He knows he shouldn't.
But Tony closes his eyes and he sees those closed caskets and all he can think is that there had to be something more to their deaths and he knows it. He knows there was more, but he'll never know because all he ever was to Howard was a nuisance. Howard would never have trusted him with secrets. But Tony knows. Tony can feel it in his heart that something about that night is wrong.
He starts the engine and drives down to the site of the crash one more time. As he comes up to the bend in the road he's learning far too well, he closes his eyes, slams his foot on the gas, and jerks the wheel. He doesn't look. He can't. He can feel the car spin out, hear the tires squeal, and he knows the impact is coming.
When it does come, his breath leaves him in a blow. It feels like it's been yanked from his lungs all in one go, a vacuum created in his chest. His heart is silent, for too long, as metal crunches around his body. The steering wheel crumples around his right hand, his wrist getting caught in it for a second, but blessedly slipping free.
It's right about there his conscious awareness cuts out, which is probably for the best, because anything else that happens after that can't be good.
—
“Wake up.”
Tony blinks, eyelids feeling too heavy. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment more, but lets out a grunt of pain.
“I'm surprised you're making any noise at all right now. Come on, Stark. Now isn't your turn.”
He groans and looks up finally, his vision slowly focusing. When he moves his head, everything blurs all over and he has to start back at square one. With a whimper, he swallows past nausea and forces himself to focus on the face above him.
Storm blue eyes stare back at him, the expression behind them unreadable. As the rest of the face comes into focus, Tony can see the look of concern that is there. The man above him- He thinks it's a man above him. Maybe it's an angel. Maybe it's a demon. He isn't entirely sure if he's alive anymore.
The man above him has a face that speaks of what once might have been soft kindness, but now only knows pain. Both his own pain and the pain he inflicts on others. Tony doesn't know how he knows it, but he can see something in those eyes that tells him this man has suffered. This man looks the way Tony thinks he feels, but he knows there's so much more there that Tony will never understand.
And despite all that, he's sitting over Tony on the roadway, looking him over, checking him for injuries. This man, who probably only knows Tony's face from the news, who probably happened down the road and found the wreck by chance, is just trying to be a good Samaritan, and Tony feels for his pain. Because Tony is adding to that pain now. By being yet another thing this poor man has to deal with in his lifetime.
“I'm sorry,” Tony gasps out, tears welling in his eyes, clouding his vision. His chest hurts and his heart is pounding between his ears again. He can feel a dull ache in his hip and leg, another throb of pain behind his right eye, and along his right side.
“Why are you sorry?” The man stares at him, hands pausing over him as they scan for injuries, methodical as they've been. Clinical. Like so many soldiers Tony has seen in his times trailing behind Howard and watching soldiers put through training scenarios. This man is military, though he's been out for a while.
“I don't know,” Tony whispers, shaking his head and feeling his body tense in pain.
The man presses a palm against Tony's chest. “Don't move,” he warns. “You were lucky. The car hit on the passenger side and you took minimal damage, but you still shouldn't move until the paramedics get here. I called them for you.”
Tony looks at the man and offers a faint, broken smile. “Why?”
“Because it's not your turn yet,” the man says with a shrug, looking at Tony and then away.
As the sound of sirens approaching begins to hit Tony's ears, the man looks back down at him and smiles in a tense, thin-lipped way. He puts a little more pressure against Tony's chest, then moves to stand.
“Word of advice, Stark,” the man says softly. “If you're going to drink, get yourself a driver.”
Tony groans and closes his eyes. He doesn't know if it's minutes or hours later that he feels hands on him, checking him for injuries again, moving him onto a stretcher board, getting him into the back of an ambulance. The movement makes him dizzy, so he doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he tries to breathe through it all and keeps his mind on the fading mental image of those eyes.
Weeks later, when he's sitting in his new office in his father's company. Soon to be his company. When he's miraculously well thanks to too much alcohol in his system and the car not hitting on his side, all Tony can do is think about how desperately he'd wanted it to end that day. He'd gotten so deep into himself and wanted to be done with the world, but he drank too much and went too far. He never tensed up. Nothing broke. His body barely got any scrapes. A little bit of a concussion and a horrible hangover were the worst of his problems.
Now, he's back where he started. No parents. No dreams. No desires.
Nothing but the memory of blue and the echo of words that linger at the back of his mind as he picks up a small stack of papers before looking up at the man across from him over the desk.
“So, Harold Hogan, is it? I see you have a pretty impressive driving record.”