FIC: "Shrapnel" (Marvelfic, Iron Man)
Dec. 29th, 2006 03:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
transemacabreCivil War-era Iron Man fic. Can be gen or subliminally slashy, depending on your preference.
The first time Tony Stark was shot through the heart, it nearly killed him.
He's replayed the moment a thousand times in his head: the jungle, the adrenaline in his blood, his boot tripping that wire. Shrapnel exploding into his chest, inching closer and closer to his heart, certain death. The end of his life. The beginning of his life.
Even then, Tony found violence was all too easy for him. He entered every battlefield clad for war, the armor seperating him from the brutalities he inflicted. Never seperated from his armor. A knight become one with his weapons. When he removes his mask and holds it in his hands, Tony remembers the Inferno, a poet holding his "severed head by the hair, swinging it like a lantern in its hand". A sower of discord. He had received an excellent education, the best his father could afford. Only the best.
His own life has been broken and remade so many times, like a shattered bottle painstakenly put back together, piece by piece. A shattered bottle in his fireplace, the last precious drops of alcohol still clinging to the glass, a memory of long ago, not long enough. In the all-too-present, there is his shattered team, the Avengers, his pride and joy and his downfall. Tony never meant for them to turn on him like this. He wants them to understand, he needs them to understand, he is only doing what must be done.
Don't leave, Tony wants to tell Peter, his lips forming the words, his voice failing him. Don't leave me. Stay with me, believe me. I will give you everything. Just stay. Stay. But Peter's leaving is as fated as the downfall in one of those wretched tragedies. Tony wants to pull him closer, make him hold still so he can make Peter understand, but Peter slips through his grasp. Instead, his fist connects with Peter's face, flesh yielding before the metal. Bone breaking. Heartbreaking.
Tony sits alone in his private study, contemplating the face reflected back at him from his mask. He speaks aloud to no one. "I didn't want to do it," he lies.
Tony is beginning to think that this time, being shot through the heart will kill him.
The first time Tony Stark was shot through the heart, it nearly killed him.
He's replayed the moment a thousand times in his head: the jungle, the adrenaline in his blood, his boot tripping that wire. Shrapnel exploding into his chest, inching closer and closer to his heart, certain death. The end of his life. The beginning of his life.
Even then, Tony found violence was all too easy for him. He entered every battlefield clad for war, the armor seperating him from the brutalities he inflicted. Never seperated from his armor. A knight become one with his weapons. When he removes his mask and holds it in his hands, Tony remembers the Inferno, a poet holding his "severed head by the hair, swinging it like a lantern in its hand". A sower of discord. He had received an excellent education, the best his father could afford. Only the best.
His own life has been broken and remade so many times, like a shattered bottle painstakenly put back together, piece by piece. A shattered bottle in his fireplace, the last precious drops of alcohol still clinging to the glass, a memory of long ago, not long enough. In the all-too-present, there is his shattered team, the Avengers, his pride and joy and his downfall. Tony never meant for them to turn on him like this. He wants them to understand, he needs them to understand, he is only doing what must be done.
Don't leave, Tony wants to tell Peter, his lips forming the words, his voice failing him. Don't leave me. Stay with me, believe me. I will give you everything. Just stay. Stay. But Peter's leaving is as fated as the downfall in one of those wretched tragedies. Tony wants to pull him closer, make him hold still so he can make Peter understand, but Peter slips through his grasp. Instead, his fist connects with Peter's face, flesh yielding before the metal. Bone breaking. Heartbreaking.
Tony sits alone in his private study, contemplating the face reflected back at him from his mask. He speaks aloud to no one. "I didn't want to do it," he lies.
Tony is beginning to think that this time, being shot through the heart will kill him.
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Date: 2006-12-29 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 11:38 pm (UTC)