Mr Stark Is Not Selfish

Hello.

I hate to do this, especially since everybody here has been so phenomenal since the start. This fanfiction has become stupidly popular and all of the comments I've received have been so positive. You have all been so supportive and I really, really wanted to avoid this, which is partly why I've put this off for so long.

So, as you might have already gathered from the title, I'm officially announcing this fanfiction as discontinued. Anyone and everyone is welcome to take this, writing and all, reword it (though that is optional), and continue it themselves. I don't expect anyone to do so, however, mostly because the writing is mediocre at best and the characterisation is so off everyone in this story might as well be all completely different people.

There is a lot I want to say and I know you all deserve an explanation. Firstly, I apologise for both the slow updates and the fact that it's been months since I've last so much as tried to write the next chapter. It took me a long, long time to decide to finally admit to you I've given up, and even longer for me to bring myself to actually admit it because I desperately wanted to avoid disappointing you all more than I already have.

Truthfully, I fell out of the fandom hard not long after I posted the most recent chapter. I tried to push on: keep writing, keep loving everything Marvel as much as I used to because I didn't want to stop. I've adored Marvel as a whole for so, so long that not adoring it with all of my being felt wrong.

So I kept reading Spider-Man-centric fanfiction, kept forcing myself to write yet another horribly-worded sentence for a chapter I knew deep down I was never going to finish, kept asking for Marvel merchandise and purchasing it even though I'd gone over a half year without so much as sitting down and watching one of their movies.

I still like Marvel: the franchise as a whole still means quite a bit to me; the characters are still as amazing as I remember them being; the actors that helped make the movies still hold a precious place in my heart; and I still look at my Marvel posters and books and figurines fondly. Occasionally, I even read Marvel fanfiction or plan a new one based off of an idea I happened to grow attached to. But that's all that's left: lingering emotions that are but fragments of what they used to be.

I did genuinely not want to let you all down though. There were still people encouraging me and asking about updates so I kept trying. But soon I couldn't handle looking or even thinking about this story because, despite everything you've all said to me, I no longer held positive feelings for it. Each new comment or kudos had me feeling sick with self-hate and anxiety because I just couldn't give you what you wanted even though you all deserved the best.

I grew to resent myself for not being able to do something so simple. I grew to dread the comments I received. I grew to despise the mere thought of opening up the story in a browser because all it did was remind me that I was a failure that couldn't commit.

Those feelings died down, after a while, but I could no longer look at this fanfiction with admiration anymore. I used to love the fact that people were enjoying my work, and worked hard to give you my best efforts. Now, I feel disappointed in myself and ashamed that couldn't get farther. That I couldn't bring the ideas I had to life because I hated everything I wrote.

I had no motivation to write. No desire to keep trying. And now here I am. I know it's stupid and that this was just a whole pile of pathetic excuses. I've made a lot of excuses to you all in the past, and I can confidently say this is the last time you'll have to tolerate them.

I sincerely apologise for wasting your time and being unable to live up to your expectations. It was foolish and cruel of me to drag you along for as long as I have. I hope you can understand that I never wanted it to lead to this and that I had just wanted to please you. Additionally, I apologise for making such a big deal out of something you (or some of you) probably consider to be nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Thank you for encouraging me and supporting me even when I deserved none of it.

---

In case any of you were curious, this is what I have of what was meant to be the fourth chapter. I hate it with every ounce of my being, and I'm sure you'll agree that the writing is atrocious, but, if you're curious, here it is. I recommend not reading it at all because its really not worth the effort, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to leave it here for anyone that might want to read it, even if it's just to marvel at how horrible it is. 

--- 

There was something so surreal about it.

Tony couldn’t quite place the feeling. It was like a word stuck in the back of his throat that his mouth just couldn’t pronounce. So close yet so far at the same time. Like Peter. His mind idly supplied. But he’s right there. He’s right there and he shouldn’t be. He’s right there.

At first, the soft pitter-patter of approaching footsteps was a distant sound that his mind couldn’t process. A faint echo drowned out by the deafening noise of Tony’s swirling thoughts as they crashed and collided, fighting for his immediate attention with the strength and volume of a thunderstorm. Everything was too much. Too much. Too much. Too much.

He felt like a computer that had run out of storage. His files were full and yet he kept trying to cram in additional data to the point that he had malfunctioned. Shut down. Shut down. Shut dow – He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t concentrate on the sound of footsteps as they grew increasingly louder. Couldn’t focus on the heavy, panted breathes and worried shouts that he would’ve easily recognised as Peter’s had he heard them.

He couldn’t. He should’ve been able to. Why couldn’t he? What was wrong with him?

Maybe he had been too distracted by that – that thing. That creature constructed of bent, misshaped and destroyed technology, flesh, hair, and ice. His eyes seemed stuck to the grotesque mess of damaged metal that had long lost its shine, captivated by the blood that painted Tony2 and the surrounding ground in its ugly, dark red hues. His attention was fixed on it as if his attention were a physical object which had been glued forcefully to that horrifying sight – to that hideous and disgusting abomination and to that blood.

So much blood.

He didn’t know people could bleed that much and survive. It was a terrifying realisation that clawed at his insides and sunk into his stomach leaving him nauseous and unimaginably repulsed. He knew that he was probably exaggerating it in his mind, subconsciously causing himself to grow more alarmed and horrified and frightened (not that he’d ever say that aloud to anyone). He knew that he was probably making it seem worse to himself than it actually was.

But he couldn’t shake the idea out of his mind. The very thought that that – that thing which looked as though it had been dragged through hell and back a billion times over – had been him. Even acknowledging it – noticing those details he couldn’t possibly ignore – had him feeling faint. Dizzy. Dizzy. Dizzy. Dizzy.

As if the world had suddenly sped up, spinning faster and faster on its axis with a terrifying, reckless abandon. With every complete turn the speed would increase, and Tony would be struggling not to stumble, feet planted firmly onto the floor, posture unchanging even when his balance shifted dangerously. It seemed to him like the whole damn planet was determined to knock him over, fling him into the air until finally gravity had him tumbling back down, falling endlessly until he reached whatever hell Tony2 looked as though it had barely managed to survive.

But he knew that that wasn’t the case. He knew that all these overwhelming memories that had been suddenly and unexpectedly thrown back at him were finally throwing him into a panic attack. He knew that he needed to calm down and breathe and then everything would stop spinning and he could just watch the rest of this fucking presentation and go home. Go to sleep. Relax.

He knew all that.

But no matter how slowly he tried to inhale, his breathing just kept speeding up until he was barely breathing at all.

Because that gruesome sight right there – that disgusting abomination of a monster – had been him. It had been him and he could feel how much it had hurt. He could remember how long it had taken to be able to look at an Iron Man suit or an American flag again without throwing up. He could hear the deafening crack of his bones snapping as they had when he’d been buried under all that rubble, the sound dancing in his mind until his limbs ached with pain he wasn’t feeling.

His chest felt heavy with the metal and technology that kept his heart beating.

Tony’s hands were subconsciously curled into tight fists, skin shining white as it strained under the immense pressure. His palms and fingers grew increasingly clammy as sweat continued to coat them in thin, damp layers, yet he refused to relax his hands. Even when his fingernails dug into his flesh, tearing through it until blood – its disgustingly familiar crimson an irremovable stain on his conscious – seeped out lazily, his hands remained clenched tight.

He grounded himself on the pain. On the sting of sweat as it squirmed its way into the open, crescent cuts and mixed in with the flowing red blood. He mentally grasped onto the uncomfortable sensation of his calloused skin ripping, biting his teeth with a desperate greed into the stability it provided. Almost hungrily he held onto it, revelling in the way his mind slowly cleared, and his breathing slowed.

He ignored the way that the thought of blood had him trembling. The way that his clenched fingers shook as the blood – that oh so familiar blood – hot and thick, covered the tips of his fingers and snuck beneath his nails. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the way it discoloured his skin and instead simply continued to force his nails to dig deeper, savouring the temporary relief and focus it provided him with.

He had been mostly unreactive to what had been shown up until now, and then, all of a sudden, he couldn’t think straight anymore. Couldn’t breathe properly. He’d experienced panic attacks before – their occurrences a constant and unavoidable nuisance – but this one had come at him unexpectedly. He hadn’t been prepared but, then again, there had yet to be a time in which he had, in fact, been ready, fully expecting the suffocating emotions which always accompanied panic attacks to quietly strangle him with a vigour that would leave him fatigued for hours afterwards.

He couldn’t quite recall how long it had taken him to subdue that unnecessary hysteria, but by the time he managed to calm himself down somewhat, blood was silently slipping between his fingers, rolling in large, red droplets over his knuckles. The feeling of the warm liquid pooling in his clenched fists had him grimacing in discomfort yet he made no move to relinquish his hold. He didn’t want to risk spiralling into another episode because he knew he didn’t have the strength left to ‘fight it off’ again.

Tony decided then that it couldn’t get worse. That there wasn’t anything more scarring than watching as your past-self rived in unfathomable agony as it balanced dangerously on the edge of death. He didn’t think that there was anything that could be shown which would have a stronger impact on him. But when he finally came into view, his presence stupidly unexpected, it began to dawn on Tony how foolish it had been to let his guard down.

How careless and naïve. Really, such stupidity should be applauded. Recognised and ridiculed. He should’ve known better than to stubbornly ignore such important information. He should’ve known better than to force himself into refusing the fact that Peter had been the one to find him. He should’ve known better than to let it completely slip his mind or to allow himself to be swallowed by the blazing inferno that was his emotions. He knows he should’ve.

Because there he was.

By the time the sound of footsteps properly registered in his mind, the soft thud of worn sneakers hitting concrete and metal still a dull, quiet sound when compared to Tony’s ferociously swirling thoughts, Peter was standing there, skidding to a stop in an open doorway Tony hadn’t noticed before. For a brief, fleeting moment, Tony thought that the kid had actually returned in order to let them all out. That his escape which he had yearned for ever since the holograms first flickered to life had finally come in the form of the teenager he had grown to adore like a son.

But then he noticed how that doorway was tinted slightly with shades of unnatural blue, the sharp corners of the architecture glitching faintly as expensive technology worked hard to keep the framing opaque. He noticed how despite the fact that the open structure was pressed against the wall, it didn’t quite fit in with the ghostly pale white which the hologram was unsuccessfully attempting to cover with metallic greys stained with faint blue. He noticed the way that Peter’s seemingly frail body glistened with transparency as it forcefully halted its previously rapid movements.

Tony’s heart sank with a growing dread that had the billionaire twitching in reluctant anticipation, heart skipping beats as nervousness swam throughout his thoughts tauntingly, every stroke of its non-existence arms only further fuelling its intensity. Anxiety gathered like dark clouds in his mind, unease causing him to sweat and his already tight facial expression to pinch together forming unpleasant wrinkles and creases in his skin. And then Peter – Peter2, Tony tried to persuade himself into thinking, because that isn’t him anymore – finally did stop, his movements suddenly freezing.

Stark stiffened, entire body tense with unreasonable fear. He felt the physical room and people – people he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge for the past few minutes – around him dissipate. Disappear. He had just been there, in that office room watching holograms re-enact past events, but now he was in that cursed HYDRA facility again, posing as an outside spectator wanting desperately to interfere but rendered incapable of doing so. An outside spectator that simply didn’t exist.

No.

He only saw.

Nothing he did would change anything and deep down he knew that. He knew it all too well.

He could only watch.

It was as though everyone and everything else that wasn’t this – this nightmare of a past that continued to haunt him with a growing vigour – was just gone and only he was left. But he knew that that wasn’t the case. He knew that there were some things which he purposefully refused to see in his clearly delirious state, but he didn’t care. Because he might aswell have been back in Siberia, back in the past witnessing a series of events play out that he was previously unaware ever occurred.

Because all of a sudden only this mattered. Only Peter and only what Tony wanted to see – wanted to acknowledge out of the far too limited selection he had been given. And currently – currently he was captivated by Peter’s every action. Every movement and reaction. So Tony stared at the boy who had come to a startled standstill, allowing himself to be swallowed by his own ugly emotions.

It was a brief moment – a fraction of a second – that seemed to stretch for centuries. A quick pause in Peter’s previously rapid movements that Tony was sure to have missed had he not been staring so intently. In that short time, however, a barely comprehendible ocean of emotions washed over Peter’s face in waves, each one a cold slap of terror or fear or worry or determination.

Peter stood there for so little time yet every miniscule fraction of a second crawled by at a painfully slow pace. As though everything and everyone had stopped moving. All but them. Tony didn’t expect it to feel so awfully lonely and depressing. He kept his eyes trained on Peter, watching for even the smallest change in the teenager’s expression.

Tony noted how the kid was only dressed in a pair of thin, navy blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt crafted out of a cheap fabric that couldn’t even begin to keep his spiderling warm. Tony could see Peter shiver, the boy’s limbs twitching gently. The longer Tony stared at them, the harder it became for him to discern whether his kid was shaking from the cold or something entirely different.

Tony thought that there wasn’t torture anywhere in the infinite universe more painful than this. He’s made that decision before in the past only to be proven wrong time and time again, but now he was sure that this was worse than anything else he could hope to think of. He was so certain because he couldn’t remember or fathom a single person causing him this much agony in so little time without even trying.

He didn’t think that there was anything that could hurt more than watching as Peter – as his goddamn kid – looked at what had once been Tony and become paralysed with fear. He didn’t think that anything could hurt more than watching as Peter’s eyes widened in horror, previously adorable, wonder-filled brown orbs darkening with the shadows of ever-lasting mortification.  

A choked sob bubbled out the billionaire’s mouth, the sound filled with a deep sorrow and uncontrollable despair. I should’ve been better. I should’ve been better. I could’ve been better. But I wasn’t and I’m not and I hurt Peter. I scared Peter. I scared my kid.

When Tony first met Peter, he told himself he wouldn’t get attached. He looked at Peter and immediately told himself that he would help the kid – keep him alive and safe – but keep him at arm’s length. That he wouldn’t let that child radiating such beautiful innocence, respect and rare enthusiasm get close to him. He wouldn’t. Because when Tony Stark gets attached, people suffer. He hurts people. He ruins lives. And so he took one look at Peter and decided that no, he wasn’t going to ruin this one.

That he wasn’t going to hurt him like Tony knows he hurt everyone else.

But he did. Tony got attached. He got attached and he shouldn’t have. He knows he shouldn’t have but he did, and Peter suffered because of it. He shouldn’t have gotten attached. He should have never even approached Peter, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it because he adored the kid and couldn’t imagine life without him anymore. And he hated himself for that because that was so selfish and greedy and unfair.

No. God – please no. Peter needed to get away. He needed to run and never look back because that was what Tony deserved. No. No, no, no no nononono – He repeated that single word in his mind as many times as physically possible until they melded together to the point they were barely decipherable among his growing panic and desperation.

But then Peter was running forwards faster than Tony thought possible. Two steps was all it took. Two steps forward and Tony was standing a mere foot away from his disgusting past self as if attempting to shield Peter from the sight. He wasn’t fast enough to block Peter’s path but as the kid rushed past, he couldn’t help but reach out for him anyway. 

He wasn’t sure why he did it or what he was hoping to achieve, but the brief calmness in his mind had fallen back into that unyielding chaos and he just needed Peter to stop. He needed everything to stop. He needed… he needed it to stop and in his mind he prayed and begged that it would because his heart was beating so fast it hurt and the tears kept pooling in his eyes no matter how slowly he tried to breathe.

Deep down he knew that it wouldn’t have mattered if he was faster because the Peter he was seeing was a hologram. That Peter wasn’t real. Not anymore at least. But he threw his arms forwards, anyway, shivering instinctively when his kid just passed through his fingers like they weren’t even there.

“Mr Stark!” Tears hot with emotions of grief and regret threatened to spill from his already misty eyes as Peter’s yell sounded around the room.

Tony despised the way that that shout – that horrible shout filled with so much pain and concern that he could feel his heart crack under the pressure it provided – echoed around him, the sound suffocating him in the despair that it held. It trapped him in its bars of misery, the prison of guilt it created surrounding him in a manner that left his skin crawling with the discomfort of claustrophobia. He hated the way it made his already ragged and uneven breathing hitch, sobs struggling to escape past the growing lump in his throat.

God, he was so pathetic.

Panicking like he was. Crying like he was. He was an adult. A grown man and yet here he was, crying and panicked and afraid all because of a stupid fucking re-enactment. What kind of self-respectable man couldn’t even maintain calmness when faced with such trivial matters?

Back then, when Tony had been where Tony2 was now, dying cold and alone, he hadn’t heard his kid’s first yell for him. Or maybe he had, and it had just failed register in his mind over the growing numbness of death that had clutched him in two, clawed hands tightly. Maybe. But Tony couldn’t remember anyways, and he couldn’t be bothered to try.

Instead, a strangled scream tore its way out of the billionaire’s throat, the yell a poignant mix of despair and fear. “No!” By the time the single word – so seemingly simple yet so deeply complicated with emotions he couldn’t begin to comprehend – had left his lips, Peter was already by Tony2’s side.

As Peter carelessly knelt beside Tony2, the blood which coated the surrounding floor rapidly spread into the fabric of the kid’s jeans, inevitably staining them with dark red splotches permanently. A part of him – that small, curious, scientist part – wondered how the blood had managed to avoid freezing despite the bone-chilling cold which had covered the HYDRA facility at the time like a heavy, suffocating blanket, woven out of ice and snow so heavy it could crush a normal man beneath its weight. Logically, it seemed impossible, but logic had shown to have a habit of inexplicably vanishing at Tony’s expense in the past so this shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was.

Truthfully, however, the fear which had instinctively stabbed trough him upon noticing the small splash of blood which accompanied the action Peter had just committed had directed his thoughts far away from those of science. He’s ashamed to admit that that small detail thrust him into a messy mind-set of fight or flight instincts so demanding he found himself flinching violently. The urge to take an instinctive, half-step backwards so powerful he couldn’t resist yielding to its persistent commands. At his sides, his limply hanging arms twitched as the force of his uncontrollably shaking hands travelled up them. They twitched not unlike the stalks of wilting flowers which swayed viciously as authoritative winds crashed and collided into them from various angles, forcing them to bend and dance mercilessly.

“Mr Stark!” Peter shrieked as he knelt. It was almost eerily unnatural how thoroughly every syllable that left his lips was coated in a deep-rooted anguish, so obviously stemmed from an indescribable fear and desperation that they tugged on Tony’s very soul.

He watched as the kid placed uncertain fingers against Tony2’s face, gently pressing his trembling hands into the humanoid projection’s head in an apparent attempt to stop it from banging against the concrete floor again. His eyes reflected a mix of panic, concern and confusion that Tony couldn’t help but sympathise with. He watched as the spiderling’s head swivelled left and right frantically in search of something – anything. It was clear to Stark how lost Peter probably felt then, faced with circumstances that the teenager couldn’t hope to grasp.

“Mr Stark!? Mr Stark what’s happening? What’s wrong? Please, sir, tell me how to help!” He cried as his gaze finally came to a rest back on Tony2. Something in Stark’s heart jerked as a bolt of guilt struck him. I’m sorry, Pete. I’m so, so sorry I didn’t answer you. I’m so sorry you saw me like that. I’m so sorry. And I know that that’s usually your line, kid, but this time – like every other time – it’s completely my fault. I’m sorry. “Please, Mr Stark! I don’t – I don’t know what to do! How can I help you!?”

Tears finally blossomed in the corners of Peter’s eyes, clouding his already dulling Bambi-brown irises with layers upon layers of hysteria, each one blemished with ugly red hues that perfectly reflected the crimson-maroon of the blood that painted the icy floor. Terror shone in the teenager’s increasingly moist orbs, glistening with unrestrainable alarm and incertitude. It pained Tony to watch as the tears began to fall, Peter’s eyes rapidly skipping back and forth, wide with panic that only grew as they continuously drifted back to Tony2’s writhing form, clearly weary of what it was he knew he’d see yet still unable to look away for too long.

Tony yearned to ease his kid’s suffering – to step in and drag him back home where the engineer could wrap the child up in a mountain of blankets, safely hidden far away from anything that could cause him harm. But Tony knew, no matter how much he tried to deny it, that coddling Peter – locking him up in a place where his well-being could be guaranteed at all times – would hurt the teenager just as much – if not more. He’d feel as though he wasn’t doing enough – that too many people were going without help because of him – when he already had done more than anyone could have possibly hoped, and Stark knew that. Tony knew that Peter wouldn’t be happy if kept securely in an unrelenting bubble of protection and simply that wasn’t worth his guaranteed, physical health.

“Mr Stark! Mr Stark please.” Peter begged; barely stifled sobs audible from where they remained trapped in the back of the kid’s throat. A brief silence had settled on the pair by the time Peter’s head jerked up, wide, desperate eyes staring into the darkness beyond the doorway. “Help! Anyone! Please, help him!”

With every plea that left the kid’s throat Tony would grow more overwhelmed – as though his heart were beating so hard that it was about to jump out of his chest. Each word was like a personal attack that shattered the walls the billionaire had worked hard to build around himself, leaving behind only the broken remains of the emotional strength that they had represented. He couldn’t take anymore. He just couldn’t.

But Peter continued anyway, ignorant of the pain he was inflicting on he who watched nearby. Each yell sounded louder than the last – every syllable drowned more prominently in emotions so heavy they pressed at Tony’s ribcage and threatened to break through the bones. All those letters – so rudely innocent alone yet now combined to form sentences painful enough they ignited fiery waves of hurt inside him when repeated – seemed to waltz on Tony’s already battered exterior with clawed feet that dug deep into him and ripped out chunks of his flesh. It was as though they thrived on the emotional wounds they were inflicting, bathing in the blood, and rejoicing in the demented satisfaction that filled them.

“Help! Ms Potts!? Mr Happy!? Please!”

Silently, Tony wondered why hearing those names had so little of an impact on him. Why they failed to taunt a reaction out of him like the familiarity that plagued them usually achieved to do. Maybe he’d become numb to it. Numb to feelings of despair and agony that swirled throughout him, dancing on his heart and corrupting his mind. Even the resulting fear that came with that realisation wasn’t enough to shake him out his stupor.

It was as though he’d fallen into an endless chasm. Like he had been swallowed by the darkness that resided there, and been pulled continuously further down and far away from the fading light of hope that glowed just beyond reach. It consumed him in a manner so eerily similar to the sensation of drowning. Down and down he went. Falling. Sinking. The icy coldness of misery surrounded him completely, dulling his contact with reality as it grew ever farther.

“Help! I’ve found him – I’ve found Mr Stark – and he needs help! We’re over here! Please!” Peter then turned back to Tony2, analysing him with uncertainty as though debating whether or not he should leave the man behind and search for help. Stark could practically see the raging battle that was taking place inside the boy, each side fighting against the other as though the very universe depended on their success.

---

Tony sort of spaced out after that.

Everything from the next few minutes was a blur of colours and shapes that appeared and disappeared from his line of view, the borders separating the humanoids from concrete and metal smudged beyond recognition. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t distinguished Peter from the mess of shapeless blobs that now dominated his surroundings, swirling and throbbing with movement he couldn’t identify. 

It was like looking at the world through a broken kaleidoscope. Everything lacked order – betrayed obedience of the bonds that should have tied them to reality and make the bow down to the command of logic. And yet it was all so off in another sense completely. The patterns and repeated reflections that the common kaleidoscope created weren’t there. Rather in their places sat a chaotic jumble of asymmetrical and unrepetitive smudges of bleak, under-saturated colours, blending together at the edges and constantly changing, morphing into more new abominations.

Tony didn’t bother to try and find the cause. He was fairly sure that it was just his mind, blocking out those sights as best it could in hopes of relieving the painful ache in his chest. He also realised that this sort of self-defensive reaction was also what was causing the sounds – the harsh blow of powerful winds that weren’t there, Peter’s heart-breaking whimpers and tearful cries – to dull to mere whispers he could barely hear.

Unheard words floated through the air, drifting by deaf ears before vanishing altogether as though they never existed. Like the screams of the dead they haunted Tony, clinging to him until they couldn’t anymore, his purposeful ignorance enough to block their vengeful attacks from making contact. A part of him felt guilty for it – for essentially blocking Peter and shoving his presence out of his mind.

But Tony needed this. He needed this small break because he seriously couldn’t handle anymore. Couldn’t handle listening to one more word. One more sob that would rattle in his head endlessly, echoing in the confines of his soul with an agony so sorrowful he couldn’t describe it. One more look at that scared, worried expression on Peter’s face – those brown eyes so darkened by fear they no longer shone with the glistening remains of childhood innocence and ever-present joy.

He just couldn’t.

So he locked himself up inside his mind, throwing away the key far from view so that he wouldn’t need to think about it anymore. He could just breathe – concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest as a soft buzzing hummed to him. Vibrating with strictly restrained anticipation and a proud resilience that fought back against the noises of metal smashing against concrete and Peter’s unrelenting screams.

Tony wanted to leave.

To go home and snuggle up against Pepper until the pain went away.

Please.

Let me out.

I’m not strong enough to see anymore. I’ll never be strong enough.

I don’t want to be strong enough.

I just want to go home.

---  

Pepper arrived at the scene much like Peter did, her wild, messy hair a blurry mess of strawberry-blonde. Her frantic eyes met Peter’s desperate ones, a silent conversation stitched together by a shared feeling of overwhelming, hesitant relief and concern so strong that it threatened to send them both crashing to the floor under the pressure it forced upon them. Tony hated how despite how blurry everything appeared, those emotions were beyond impossible to ignore. So difficult to so much as pretend to not see.

Still, Tony didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Just like how he couldn’t stop that lone tear from rolling down his cheek, or his heart from skipping a beat or his body from tensing as though bracing itself for a physical attack that he wished would come. However, besides for those small reactions he didn’t do anything else. Just stared numbly, wide eyes reflecting nothing but the dull throb of pain still pounding at his soul, smothered by a severe depression disguised as a forceful acceptance.

When Pepper screamed in initial horror Tony did nothing but watch, not even flinching as the sound squirmed its way into the confines of his mind, nesting itself in a deep, dark corner. It promised to remind the inventor of its presence every night when he closed his eyes, just like every other one of his demons had. The way his name tripped off her tongue with such distraught was unforgettable. Like the wail of a dying soul as it attempted to cling to what was left of its existence, all the while the devil pulled it down by its legs.

Pepper turned around after that, yelling for Happy and the paramedics which were quick to respond to her call. They rushed in all at once: ten doctors whom he vaguely recognised entered first, two of which dragged a hospital stretcher between them, and at least four others carrying all sorts of medical equipment. Happy was scurrying behind them, looking all at once frazzled, exhausted, worried and terrified beyond belief. The forehead of security could only briefly glance at Pepper in concern before quickly pulling Peter away from Tony2.

Truthfully, Stark’s senses were flooded with instant relief the moment his kid was being distanced from Tony2, Happy gripping the boy tightly by the fabric of his thin t-shirt like a mother cat lifting her kitten up by their neck. Peter was dragged away towards the back of the room, where he was left by the reluctant bodyguard to watch numbly as the following events unfolded before him. His blank, emotionless expression unnerved the billionaire more than he’d like to admit.

He could only imagine what sort of look was on his own face right now, wondering with a cringe if he currently looked just like Peter had then. Emotionless. Accepting. And yet all at once in a state of denial so vehement it tore at him from the inside, chewing away at the already fallen, iron walls that had once guarded the feelings he had trapped within himself so fearfully long ago. Back when Howard had been the one to bear the title of ‘Mr Stark’, proudly displaying it like a badge and preening at the respect it empowered him with. Glowing with pride at the absolute fear and terror it inspired in those he disapproved of.

But this wasn’t about his crappy, egotistical father.

What is this about?

At this point, so far into the footage and so deep inside his own head, Tony couldn’t remember. Not now that he’d fallen so far from his usually composed self, façade of confidence having long crumbled to dust and his mask of forced calm reduced to ashes. He couldn’t remember why he was here to begin with – in this room surrounded by holograms that tormented him and where he was suffocated by his own thoughts. Couldn’t remember why he hadn’t left yet.

Couldn’t remember that he couldn’t leave.

Couldn’t remember how much he had wanted to.

He just didn’t care. Why should it matter? Did it even matter? No, no it didn’t. Because surely if it did – if he had so desperately wanted to leave – wouldn’t he have? He was smart. Unnaturally so. He could’ve found his way out by now if he had wanted to. He knows he could’ve. But he hadn’t tried, and he knew that. He was sure of it.

So, it didn’t matter.

Because he didn’t want to look away, and that was his choice.

This hell was something he had personally condemned himself to. Something he had chosen.

And Tony refused to run from his choices.

Running was all he was good for, and he needed to change that.

Happy had given Peter a quick pat on the back and shot a worried expression in his direction before scurrying off to comfort Pepper, who appeared to be taking it all just as badly. She was a mess. The more Tony really looked at her the more he noticed the small details. Her shirt was covered in creases, and her tight pencil skirt had shimmied up her legs enough to be bordering on the edge of being too short to be work appropriate.

Her hair was the most obvious sign that her distress was actually causing her to become visibly dishevelled. It looked as though it had been tied in its usual bun at some point, but now the strawberry-blonde strands were a tangled mess of curls, a discoloured hair-tie barely managing to keep the hair into something resembling a low ponytail all the way down at the base of her neck. It sat here as though it had slid down her head over time, appearing utterly defeated.  

There was a hand over her mouth and tears pooling in her eyes. Tony could tell she was hurting as an unbridled concern ate at her insides like it always seemed to when he was involved. Tony really hated seeing her so disgruntled. He hated to think that he mattered so much to Pepper because she was an amazing, wonderful woman, and he knew that being around him would only ruin her. He had that effect on people. That uncanny ability to hurt them – to break them down from the inside-out by simply existing.

Peter was a far too good example of that particular aspect of Tony’s unintentional handiwork.

As Happy consoled Pepper, and the medics stripped the remains of Tony2’s armour off in order to identify wounds they couldn’t yet see and begin chest compressions, Peter was left alone. Sweet, innocent, selfless Peter. When Tony looked at him now all the man could see was but a husk of what he should have. Peter’s eyes didn’t sparkle – didn’t glow with a love of science and a constant, unrivalled happiness like Tony knows they were meant to. That permeant smile that had always succeeded to cheer Tony up was gone, and his fluffy, curly brown hair was frozen at the tips and covered in frost.

Those hands that Peter had used to build remarkable inventions and to hold steaming mugs of hot chocolate on rainy, Sunday nights were covered in blood that stuck to his skin and crumbled at the edges. Every time his fingers so much as twitched softly the dried blood would crack, fracturing around the points where skin tended to wrinkle. The brown-red substance crawled all the way up to his wrists, inching towards his elbows like a poisonous snake coiled around his arms. The blood on his pants and shirt didn’t improve the image he was creating, instead leaving the poor boy looking as though he had come straight from a gruesome crime scene set in some sort of horror movie.

Tony tried not to stare too long. Just thinking about the fact that that was his blood left his head spinning and his stomach churning dangerously, bile threatening to climb up his throat. Instead, the billionaire directed his attention to the pitiful glances Happy would send the teenager sporadically from across the room, and the pain etched into Pepper’s expression as she watched the medical professionals try to save her boyfriend’s life.

He couldn’t bare to look at what they were doing to Tony2. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to watch as they pressed firmly on the gaping wound Roger’s shield had left in its chest, or tore at the flimsy remains of Mark XLVI with as much care as they could afford to. Didn’t want to have to listen as they shouted to each other, frantic voices yelling for someone to switch and perform CPR in that doctor’s stead, and for someone to also help move Tony2 onto the jet so they could get it to an actual hospital. A lot was happening over there, and Tony wanted no part of it – no knowledge of what sort of complicated procedures they needed to perform on him.

So he stared at Pepper and Happy and Peter, back turned to the paramedics as he blatantly tried to ignore them.

He wished that that would’ve been more effective.

---

The paramedics were gone.

They’d left in a rush, speeding on right out of the exit, they’re frantic shouts audible for a while after they’d vanished from sight. Happy and Pepper were quick to follow. Only Peter remained now, standing alone in the empty room, his only company the still-falling snow and the dried puddle of blood. Happy had initially tried to gently lead Peter out of the bunker too, but was eventually forced to leave him behind.

-

“C’mon, Pete. Let’s go.” Happy murmured softly as he wrapped his fingers around the boy’s bicep, urging him forwards with a carefulness that clearly displayed how weary of Peter’s current state he was. It was as though Happy was terrified that one wrong move would cause the teenager to completely shatter, as though he was currently far more fragile than glass.

Happy turned to walk off, hand still gripping tightly onto Peter’s arm. But Peter didn’t move. He remained still; eyes shadowed by brown strands of hair which had fallen onto his face. His head was hung, and his posture probably uncomfortably stiff. The bodyguard spun back around, a concerned expression tugging at his weathered features.

“Peter?” When he received so reply he sighed sympathetically. “C’mon Peter. Let’s go.”

Again, Happy tried to walk away and gently drag the unresponsive teenager with him, but was instead startled as Peter shoved him off. “No.”

“What?” The bodyguard asked, evidently confused. “Look, Pete, I get that you’re worried – I am too. But you aren’t helping him by standing out here alone in the cold. We need to go.” He coaxed, gently trying to persuade Peter to follow him out. His concern was audible in his tone, even as he tried to fain a tough-love exterior.

“I’m not going.”

“You can’t Pete. We have to go. C’mon.” He repeated, more urgently this time, as though hoping that if he spoke with more authority, he get the results he wanted. 

“I’m not going!” Peter growled, whipping around in order to glare at the man. “You can leave, but I’m staying. Don’t wait for me. I can find my own way back.”

“Pete, you can’t be serious – ”

“Leave!” Happy jumped back in surprise at the unexpected shout, tensing at the hostility that the spiderling was suddenly displaying. “They won’t take off without you, and Mr Stark needs to get to a hospital.” Peter clarified; his tone now forcefully calm. “I’ll make it back to New York somehow, so go. I’ll figure it out. Just – just go.” At this point, Peter’s amblings had trailed off into begs, his resolve with every word that left his mouth.

For a while, all Hogan could do was stare at the kid sadly, worry and pity mingling in his expression. Eventually, he sighed and nodded  in acceptance, probably coming to the conclusion that nothing he could do would change the boy’s mind. “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that.” He threatened weakly. “And God forbid that you catch cold or something! I’ll visit your apartment tomorrow. If you’re not there I’m sending a whole search party.”

With those parting words Happy left, glancing back only once before stepping out of view.

-

So now it was just Peter. Just Tony and a hologram-version of his kid. The silence that ensued was all too foreboding, and the tense atmosphere made his skin tingle with nerves. Tony still couldn’t see Peter’s eyes as they remained hidden behind shadows. Part of him was thankful for that. He couldn’t only imagine how they must look now – dull with mortification and swirling with the lingering remnants of the blood-red stains of his internal suffering.

No, Tony didn’t want to see what Peter’s eyes looked like now, but he also didn’t want to watch as his kid’s hunched form standing shaking, his whole body twitching with sobs. Didn’t want to have to listen as Peter desperately tried to contain his tears, hiccupping and sniffling like the scared, little boy that he was. He wanted to wrap Peter up tightly in a hug and never let go.

Fuck, what is wrong with me!? He cursed internally. It’s always about what I want. Always about how I can’t stand to see Peter cry or how much it hurts me to have to watch this. What’s with all this self-centred, narcissistic bullshit! It’s Peter who was hurt. Peter who was sad and suffering and here I am, just thinking about myself. No wonder most people can’t stand me – I can’t stand me either! What kind of asshole only thinks about himself when a kid is crying right in front of him? Fuck.  

Peter’s quiet sobs gradually built up to pained wails, each meaningless shout a direct stab through Tony’s heart.

---

And that's what I got up to. Again, thank you for your tolerance and apologies for the inconvenience. Have a great day.