Chapter 1
Tony feels nothing. Most people would probably say ‘well yeah, what did you expect from the Merchant of Death?’
But most people? They don’t know him.
Most people haven’t even met him.
They don’t know how exhilarating it felt to have created a circuit board at age four, believing Howard would finally pay attention to him.
Or how warm he felt when Jarvis- the human one- said he was proud of Tony. How no matter how many times Jarvis said it, that feeling never changed.
They don’t know how safe it felt when his mother, Maria- mamma- sang to him to lull him to sleep. How she would play the piano with him when he felt sad. And how it always made it better.
How fond he was of his J.A.R.V.I.S., his kid. His bots.
Or how stunned he was when James Rhodes proved himself to be his first real friend by standing up to his bullies at MIT and still not wanting anything from Tony.
They don’t know how ecstatic he was when when he proposed to Pepper. How nervous he was, because he thought he wasn’t enough for her. How at the same time he was still happy because he had finally understood that no matter what, ring or no ring, she would be there, because she cared.
How happy he felt when he became part of the Avengers, even if he was just a consultant.
They also don’t know how depressed he was every time Howards dismissed him, ignored him, like he was nothing.
How cold he was when Jarvis died with Ana. Breaking his promise not to leave him.
How insecure he felt, when his mother wasn’t there to play for him
How hurt he was when J.A.R.V.I.S. left once again.
How he felt he should have expected it when Rhodey fell, and got in a coma, because everyone around him either left or got hurt.
Or how utterly calm he felt when Pep just looked sadly at him, her eyes watery, with pity written all over her. When she left and brought Happy with her.
They certainly didn’t know how miserable he felt when Bruce left him alone in the wake of Ultron. Or when Thor chocked him. When Clint and Wanda threw cars at him. When Natasha changed sides. When Stev… Rogers. It’s Rogers now. It has to. When Rogers… well, when Rogers outright betrayed him.
Tony Stark has always been a whirlwind of emotions. Yet now Tony feels nothing.
He is spent. Everyone had a breaking point after all, and he just might have passed it. He feels like he has just poured all his emotions out of himself and now he is left with nothing. And he feels tired.
God is he tired.
Not only tired in the physical way- even though he is extremely tired in that way, too. No, he feels mentally tired. Like his mind too has just gone through a round with two super soldiers. And his mind lost, too.
He had done everything he could to help the Avengers, the world. But every time he tried to do something good, he just… messed it up.
Howard was right. He was useless. Completely and utterly useless. Maybe the world would be a better place without him. At least he had tried, he really had.
He remembers yelling at Ste- Rogers to end it. To kill him. He should have ended the work. He should have killed Tony. But he didn’t. He should’ve expected that too. After all, when had Rogers ever listened to Tony? He should never have trusted Rogers.
What was it they say? If you want something done right… do it yourself
He is gonna die anyway, isn’t he? In this cold, with the suit disabled and with F.R.I.D.A.Y. unable to call help due to his order not to tell anyone where he is. And who would come anyway? Natasha is long gone, Rhodey is in a coma, Pepper isn’t even in the country anymore, the Spider-kid barely knows him, and Vision left too. Probably trying to find Wanda.
All he has left is F.R.I.D.A.Y., and she doesn’t have a body to come to his rescue.
He would feel bad about leaving her alone, but she will be better off without him. He has protocols and in case of his death she would be free to go anywhere she wanted. The bots too.
He isn’t going to stay around waiting for death. If he is gonna die, he’s going to do it his way. He isn’t gonna die because he was left behind. He’s going to die in his own terms. He is not dying chocking on his own blood due to his broken sternum. He isn’t freezing to death. And he is not dying because Mr. Perfect chose to leave him to die like yesterday’s trash.
He is gonna die because he chooses to do so.
He is going to die by choice, not by chance. He’s going to die like he always knew he would: in the suit. It might not be the heroic death he had hoped, but it’s better than dying choking or freezing. He isn’t going to die by St-Rogers’ hand.
If he’s gonna die by someone’s hand, he’s going to die by his own.
For a moment he thinks about the possibility of trying to escape this hell, and he has the weird need to laugh at the thought that one of the coldest places on earth could ever compared to Hell. So, half choking on blood, he laughs. It sounds too high pitched and hysterical, if not maniacal. It sounds wrong. It’s also painful, every move of his chest already hurting even before the unexpected laugh, which certainly isn’t helping. When he finally stops laughing (read: choking) he sighs. Even that hurts, and he knew it would, but somehow the pain is grounding. It helps him think. If he could live, would he really want to? He doesn’t think so. He’s too tired for that. He hasn’t got anything- anyone to return to but F.R.I.D.A.Y. and she still has to grow, she’s barely one year old, she won’t miss him. She barely knows him. Don’t get him wrong, he loves her with all his heart. Just like he loves Vision and the bots. And J.A.R.V.I.S., even if he isn’t here anymore. He loves them all, always did and always will. But they have each other. They’re going to be just fine. Even without him. And if not… they’ll figure it out. They are strong. He made sure of it. They’ll survive this. They’ll survive him. They won’t even miss him probably. No one will. After all, who would? Look at him. Pathetic.
He scoffs at himself. ‘God, this is the biggest pity party ever. Get a hold, Stark’ he thinks when his eyes start to sting with held back tears.
He isn’t going to die crying. He’s going to die facing Death head on. And maybe giving Life a middle finger. And what’s a better way to do that than by killing himself?
He grins.
He probably looks crazy. Smiling like some villain who just won against his worst archenemy.
After all, what has Life ever done for him? Yes life gave him money and good looks and intelligence. But life also made him orphan, had him literally tortured and made sure everyone around him either got hurt or betrayed him. Maybe Death will give him something more.
So, feeling strangely numb, with the grin still gracing his broken and bloodied lips, he chooses Death.
Tony pushes the emergency release button and rolls out of the suit, ending up laid on the cold pavement chest down. Hitting the ground chest first hurts. A lot. He groans and scrunches his eyes shut. He lets himself breathe for a moment, his breath visible and his cheek on the freezing snow. Uh, it had been snowing while he was making life-altering decisions. Or are they better described as life-ending decisions? Whatever, what was he doing again? Oh, right, killing himself. Anyway, he should probably move on, lest he forgets again.
He plants his palms against the pavement and pushes against it, lifting himself onto his knees. While holding himself up with one arm, his right hand goes to the hidden compartment in his suit where a knife rests. It isn’t his favourite weapon, but he always thought it would come in handy. If he hadn’t thought about it, he now would have to use a piece of the armour. Lucky him.
He props himself against one of the pillars and finds a comfortable enough position. Then, blade in his hand, he looks at his reflection in it. Well, he looks like shit. Whatever. Time is passing, and he’s running out of time. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. The light outside has dimmed, and he can feel the temperature dropping. It doesn’t matter how he looks.
He moves his right hand, placing the point of the knife against his left wrist and pushing as he drags the blade across his skin, the knife cutting the skin in a quick movement, the pain almost overwhelming him as the blade bites his flesh like the cold could never hope to, but he keeps going. He can feel the nerves snap as he goes. But he keeps pushing. And then he takes the blade away from his skin and throws it on the ground in pain.
His first instinct is to press a hand against the cut, but he suppresses it. Instead he fists his right hand to fight the pain and watches with morbid fascination the blood crawling down his skin from the jagged line. It looks like an overflowing river. If the water in the river was red. And warm. And sticky.
God he’s going crazy. Well who gives a shit? After all he can always blame the cold, or the blood loss.
He feels weirdly self-aware. So he closes his eyes and breathes, even if it hurts, and forces himself to relax his muscles. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the knife once again.
He struggles to close his left hand around the blade, but as soon as he can he grips the knife as tight as he can and uses a shaky hand to cut from his right wrist to almost his elbow. There isn’t as much strength this time but he makes do. The struggle to hold the knife makes his hand treble as it cuts through his arm, making the cut less and less precise. His face shows no sign of the pain he is into, remaining relaxed, but both his hands start to treble harder, if from the pain, or the cold, he doesn’t know.
It’s not like he doesn’t feel the pain, he muses. It’s more like he ignores it, setting it aside for a more important task. The task being killing himself
Once done with his right arm he throws the blade away. He feels so numb he struggles to move himself off of the pillar. His arms flare up in pain as he drags himself to the helmet of his suit, ignoring the arm and the shield, and leaving a trail of blood behind. He grabs it and rolls into the suit, letting himself fall heavily into it.
He sighs and with his trembling hand brings the helmet to close around his face.
He’s not dying as Tony Stark
The hated one, the selfish one, the Merchant of Death. The one who was hated by his own father, the one who has no one but the people who work for him, the one who made billions out of blood of innocents
If he’s dying, he’s dying as the loved one, the selfless one, the hero. The one who is loved by billions, the one who has a family in the Avengers, the one who sacrificed himself time and time again
The helmet lowers
He’s dying as Iron Man