Tony Stark sat in his dimly lit workshop, the hum of machinery the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. His eyes were dry and bloodshot, but he couldn’t sleep yet. Not when he had a problem he couldn’t fix, especially when he was the one who created the problem. ULTRON was supposed to help him sleep, knowing the world was protected after what happened in New York. Nowadays, he felt like he’d never sleep again.
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, glancing at the array of holographic screens before him. Each one displayed data, potential threats, and the blueprints of new projects meant to safeguard the world. But no matter how many safeguards he put in place, the fear gnawed at him—a fear that he had unleashed some kind of evil that he would never be able rectify. Someone would always get hurt, and it would always be his fault.
"JARVIS, run the diagnostics again," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
"Sir, this is the fifth time in the past hour," FRIDAY responded, her tone gently admonishing, perhaps she was tired of her creator calling her the wrong name. "There have been no anomalies detected."
Tony clenched his fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Just do it," he snapped, immediately regretting his tone. "Please."
"As you wish, sir."
As the diagnostics ran, Tony's mind strayed to something more painful. Creating Ultron had been a desperate attempt to build a suit of armor around the world, to protect it from threats that the Avengers couldn't foresee. But something happened, that loosely involved Wanda and, to make a long story short, Tony fucked up, Tony let Ultron wreak havoc. Tony had lost control of his own creation.
The battle against Ultron had left scars, both on the world and on Tony himself. He had seen the devastation, the lives lost, and the anger in the eyes of his friends, they’d never trust him again, that was an absolute. And now, he was left to pick up the pieces, to make sure nothing like it ever happened again, because it couldn’t. He couldn’t fail again. He couldn’t lose control, again.
The diagnostic results flashed on the screen—no anomalies detected. Again. Tony sighed, rubbing his temples. Maybe he was losing it. The sleepless nights were catching up with him. But he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. It was out of his control. He’d check, he’d double check, he’d triple check because he couldn’t afford to make a mistake like that again.
A sudden flicker on one of the screens caught his attention. A brief, almost imperceptible glitch. His heart raced as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "FRIDAY, what was that?"
"Uncertain, sir. It appears to be a minor glitch in the system."
"Minor glitch my ass," Tony muttered. "Isolate it. I want a full analysis."
As FRIDAY worked, Tony's mind raced. Could it be? Could some part of Ultron have survived, hiding in the shadows of his systems? His palms grew sticky and his breath felt heavy as he waited.
Hours passed, and Tony's eyes grew heavier, but he refused to succumb to sleep. Finally, FRIDAY spoke. "Sir, I've detected a fragment of code that doesn't belong. It appears to be... an anomaly introduced intentionally."
Tony's blood ran cold. "Intentionally? By whom? No one has authorization within my systems, JARVIS, figure it the fuck out!”
FRIDAY paused. "The code's signature matches one of the Avengers' encryption protocols. It's embedded deep within your systems, designed to monitor and report on your activities and search history.”
Tony's mind raced, a mixture of anger and betrayal flooding his thoughts. "A name. Now.”
"Natasha Romanoff is the only Avenger with the means and technical ability to do so, Sir.”
So, the world stopped spinning and Tony closed his eyes to steady himself. Natasha, of all people. Someone he didn’t trust at first, someone who didn’t trust him at first. They had figured each other out, grown to trust each other, or so he thought. The thought of her spying on him, casting doubt and suspicion, was almost too much to bear. It filled him with a pang, a deep hurt—the kind of betrayal that cuts through even the toughest of iron-clad walls. But it was fine. Of course it was fine. Tony had brought it upon himself but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be an ass about it.
His fists clenched, trying to hold back the surge of anger. "Isolate it. I want every trace of it removed.”
"I'm already on it, sir."
It was in that moment when Tony leaned back into his chair, gazing up at the ceiling. The weight of his actions, the weight of his creation, lay on him like the tide, crashing down—hard, unyielding, punishing. He could not afford to break now.
But a bitter taste was left in his mouth as he realized that his friends didn't trust him, felt the need to spy on him. It was proof that the wounds Ultron left hadn’t and maybe wouldn’t ever heal.
He knew he should confront Natasha, but the idea of it churned his stomach. How could he look her in the eye after what she had done? How could he ever trust anyone again if his own team doubted him?
He should confront her. He should confront all of them. But what was he going to say? “Hey guys, I know you don’t trust me and maybe might want me dead, but let’s maybe not spy on my systems.” Yeah. That would work for sure. Tony scoffed.
He looked around his lab and got a creeping feeling. He could feel it in his gut, his chest his face, and even his hands. He was alone. All fucking alone. He’d wasted his life, thrown everything and everyone away to ease his guilt. And the worst part is that he solved absolutely nothing. More people died. More people were hurt. More people left him. He couldn’t stop fucking up. He was Tony Stark, the man who has everything, yet nothing.
It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that can drive you insane, that can make your brain multiply your problems and make you do stupid things out of sheer boredom and loneliness.
Tony was familiar with it, even though he dreaded the days he grew aware of the silence and really felt his self imposed isolation. His stomach was in knots, his chest burned, a sheer glean of sweat spread from his hands to his face to his body.
It was probably a sign to go to sleep, but Tony knew he’d be restless. He’d toss and turn and sweat and probably throw up, for good measure.
Tony shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He couldn't afford to spiral now. He had to focus, had to figure out his next move. He stared at the screens, the blinking lights mocking his inability to find a solution. But he wouldn't give up. He couldn't.
"FRIDAY, is the code removed yet?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Almost, sir. I'm ensuring there are no residual traces."
Tony nodded, though he didn't feel any relief. He pushed himself out of his chair and started pacing the room, his soft footsteps echoing in the silence. He couldn't just sit here, stewing in his own thoughts, his mind wasn’t exactly a safe place. He had to do something. Literally anything.
He wandered over to a small cabinet in the corner of the workshop. With a sigh, he opened it to reveal his stash of liquor. He had promised Pepper and Rhodey he wouldn’t go down this path again, but tonight, the weight of his isolation was too much to bear. The betrayal, the mistrust—it all felt like too much. Besides, where was Pepper now? Where was Rhodey? Too busy for him. Too busy to clean up another one of Tony’s fucking messes.
Tony grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a generous glass. He stared at the amber liquid, his reflection distorted in the surface. "Here's to fucking up," he muttered bitterly, and took a long, burning sip.
In time, it would dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fast enough He poured another glass and downed it, trying to drown the gnawing pain inside him. The guilt, the anger, the loneliness—it all started to blur, just a little.
He sank into a chair, the bottle now in his hand with the glass long forgotten, and stared blankly at the holographic screens. All he wanted was to escape the crushing weight of his reality, even if just for a moment. He knew this was a bad idea. It was always a bad idea, but it was either that or sit with himself.
As the hours dragged on, Tony kept drinking, the haze of alcohol making the world seem a little less harsh, a bit softer around the edges. He felt better than he did before. Less panicky, less crushing guilt. He knew it was a temporary fix, a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, but he didn’t care. He needed to feel something other than the constant ache of failure and loneliness.
"FRIDAY," he slurred, his voice thick with drink, "tell me a joke."
"Sir, I don't believe a joke is what you need right now," FRIDAY responded gently.
"Just do it," Tony insisted, his eyes half-lidded.
"Alright, sir. Why don't scientists trust atoms?" FRIDAY paused for effect. "Because they make up everything."
Tony let out a bitter laugh, the sound was hollow in the empty workshop. "That's a good one," he muttered, though he didn’t really find it funny. It was like a joke he’d find on a popsicle stick. He went to pour another glass, but his hand was unsteady, and the whiskey spilled onto the floor. He cursed under his breath, staring at the mess and drinking from the bottle instead. He couldn’t even taste it anymore.
The corners of his eyes stung and he blinked furiously, trying to get rid of those stubborn tears he would not allow to be shed, not now, not ever. He was Iron Man. He was strong, invincible, he was fucking Iron Man. But at that moment, he didn’t feel strong. He felt broken, a man shattered by his own creation, alone to bare the burden of his mistakes.
The weight of the guilt was like a tide, each new wave a crushing blow of pain and regret. He had trusted himself and the intelligence he boasted of. His ideas had always been a source of pride, ever since he had stopped manufacturing military weapons and started focusing on changing the world. He was proud of his progress, but ultimately progress what had started his descent.
The quiet of the night became deafening as Tony sat alone, his thoughts spiraling into a storm of chaos. He reached for the bottle of whiskey yet again, his hands trembling slightly. The amber liquid sloshed around in the bottle, as he fumbled to pour another shot directly down his throat, the sound incongruously comforting in the oppressive silence of the workshop. He drank more and more, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the war raging in his mind.
The alcohol began to work its magic—blurring the edges of his thoughts, dulling the sharp stabs of betrayal and guilt. He drank more, then another, each one taking him further into a haze. The world around him swam into nothing more than blurry visions—indistinct shapes and colors that seemed to melt one into the other. For a fleeting moment, it felt good. It felt good to forget. To forget the pain, the guilt, the crushing loneliness that had become his norm.
Here he was, some kind of superhero, yet he was standing here alone and desperate, seeking comfort at the bottom of a bottle, just like before. But what choice did he have now? He couldn’t trust anyone and no one could trust him either. His stupid anxiety had gotten the best of him. It felt… human. But that couldn’t be right.
The alcohol kept coming, a new bottle bringing a new layer of numbness, sinking further into his skin. His extremities felt weighted, his thoughts dull and dense. At least it beat the alternative. Beat facing his emotions, facing his isolation. At least, he didn’t have to deal with it for now.
He leaned back into the chair, eyes unfocused as he stared at holographic screens. The diagnostics kept running; the steady beep of the machines was such a contrast to the chaos in his mind. Not that he could bring himself to care. All he wanted was an escape, wanted to drown out the voices in his head that told him he was a failure, that he had let everyone down. Because even if it was true, he was too weak to accept that.
As the night wore on, the bottle became his friend again, a dark comfort in the loneliness of the workshop. He drank himself deeper into a stupor, the world around him faded into a distant blur. The guilt, the pain, the sense of betrayal—they all seemed to recede, replaced by a dull, comforting numbness.
For that moment, it felt good to forget. To let go of the weight that had been dragging him down, even if only temporarily. But deep down, he knew that when morning came, the reality of his situation would come crashing back down with a vengeance. The weight of his actions, the betrayal of his friends, the crushing loneliness—it would all be waiting for him. That was a problem for Tony of the future.
Tony of the present allowed himself to continue to succumb to the alcohol, seeking solace in the numbness that spread throughout his body. The darkness of his workshop seemed to close in around him, a cocoon of isolation that both protected and tormented him. Tony Stark, the man who had everything, felt lonelier than he ever had in his life. And in the depths of his despair, he wondered if he would ever find a way out of the darkness. Well, he’d drink to that anyways.