Chapter 1
It really shouldn't come as a surprise.
Tony was not known for his impulse control. Obviously, he can draw. He's no DaVinci, but he's been sketching up designs since he was three. Mostly, Tony, at his core, has the temperament of an artist.
So why did everyone react with varying degrees of shock?
~
Tony got his first when he was 16. Yes, it might have been illegal, but he always had been a bit of a rebel. Anyways, he was a year into college and had wandered into this random tattoo shop, paying an outrageous amount for them to forget his name and his age and give him a tattoo. Then he realized he didn't actually have a design in mind, flying off the cuff as he had been. The guy working the front desk had laughed.
Okay, so maybe Tony had been a bit out of it. Jarvis had died a week and a half before. Heart attack, he was told. He wasn't even invited to the funeral. Ana, Jarvis's beautiful wife, had left this world 2 years before.
Tony had been living this past week and a half in some half-dazed stupor.
So, tattoos. He closed his eyes and thought back to when he was 14. They had had a picnic in the spring for his Birthday, in a beautiful field of flowers. Ana's laughter had rung clear as a bell, one of the last times she was fully present before her illness started wearing at her, before the lines started etching themselves more firmly in his beloved butler's face. There was apple pie and bright sunlight and it was beautiful.
So he had the tattoo artist draw up twin designs for his ankles. In thin lines and bright watercolors, a bright yellow sunflower and red poppy mirrored each other.
Sunflowers for Ana's Joy. Poppies for Jarvis's remembrance.
A tear streaked down Tony's cheek when he saw them, and he thanked the artist. That night, he finally allowed himself to cry, to feel. It was the beginning of healing.
~
Tony did not anticipate how quickly he would fall in love with tattoos. They bridged that ever-present divide between mind and body, allowing him to choose what his body would represent, to claim it as his own.
He busied himself sketching up hundreds of potential designs, imagining them on his skin. The double-edged sword: limited canvas space. Whatever he put on his body, he had to make sure was worth it. Was important.
His next few came near graduation. Rhodey, his Rhodey, was leaving him for the airforce. Tony did not begrudge him this, but he knew he would miss him.
So, spur of the moment, Tony suggested they go get tattoos together. The surprise that crossed Rhodey's face was comical, but he agreed after only slight hesitation.
The crested emblem of an eagle sat on his hip, reminding him always of Rhodey's steadfastness, his purpose.
Afterwards, Rhodey had given him a tight hug, thanking him in a gruff voice.
"I'm gonna miss you, Tones."
"Aww, you say the sweetest things, honeybear."
The slight wavering of Tony's chin betrayed him.
~
The car crash came soon after, taking both of his parents with it. Three weeks were spent drunk, enraged, grieving.
His mother had taught him piano.
He found himself in his father's study, smashing his fist into walls, throwing a vase across the room, kicking the huge wooden desk until he broke two of his toes.
She used to place her hands over his, guiding them along the keys.
His hatred for his father burned like an ember in his chest. He took from Tony, took and took and took with his fists and his words and his drinking and his expectations and his judgment and his disdain and his stupid fucking car accidents that took his mother.
Not a single tear he shed was for Howard, no they were for her, all for her.
The next day, complicated lines of sheet music covered his right side, an ever present melody of an Itallian lullaby.
Sometimes, when he played it, he thought he could feel his mother's smile.
~
Afghanistan felt like he was constantly burning. At night it got so cold, and he only burned hotter.
He was combusting from inside, disintegrating, falling apart falling to dust.
Those soldiers died. Yinsen died. They all died. He wasn't enough.
Rhodey caught him in his arms, and Tony crumbled like ash. Maybe he was ash. Maybe he was dead, just a walking corpse. He felt like it.
Iron Man made him feel alive. He flew, and he laughed.
Obie's betrayal was another spark, another burn, another fire.
It hurt.
After it was all over, after he and Pepper had killed the traitor, Tony spent hours drawing.
Spent so long trying to figure out how he felt, how he wanted his body to portray him.
And a soaring phoenix rose from the ashes across his back.
~
Tony was an artist. His mind always had to be occupied. Even as a child, he scribbled out bad poetry, doodled designs in the margins of papers, picked up musical refrains as easy as breathing.
Many tattoos followed.
A bright blue cuff circled his wrist with wires crawling up his right forearm. Binary code weaved in and out of the wires, spiraling around his arm, spelling out the secrets of his creations, of Jarvis, of his beloved bots.
A hyper-realistic thestral (yes from Harry Potter he was a nerd and unashamed) flew up one calf, a dragon soaring on the other.
An angel carved from stone sat on his thigh, because while God didn't exist, surely angels did. His mom was one now, sitting up there and watching him and the angel shared the same gentle face and full lips that Maria Stark once had.
Some had little meaning, like the Medusa head on his other thigh or the music note behind his ear.
Some had too much, like the small Avengers symbols forming a crown over his reactor, carefully placed among the gnarled scar tissue.
Tony had hesitated over those, unsure whether to let them in his life or not. But they were living in his home, bring him into their team, and he found himself growing attached despite his best intentions.
~
His collection was ever growing, his story spread out across his skin for anyone to read, if they were able to translate it.
Only those closest to him knew of his tattoos-Pepper had seen them a handful of times, and of course, Rhodey had gotten several with him. He kept them carefully hidden from all others, hanging onto this extremely private part of himself, on display for all to see. Makeup and long sleeves were his friends.
Still, at times, Tony longed to share them with others. Not the whole world, but maybe the Avengers could be trusted.
Time would tell.