#but this shit is verifiable facts and isn’t obscured because all of it was a Big Deal

[kiradical]

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[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Story time again

Remember this scene?  The confrontation between Mrs. Spencer and Tony in Civil War was one of the crueler scenes of the movie IMHO.  Another undeservedly brutal and damaging wound.  I’ve been wanting to write something to patch up that damage, so, finally, here it is.

Tagging @themechcnic because I promised :) and @tonystark5ever because she’s amazing and she agreed to beta this little mess for me and added some invaluable input (thank you, girl <3 :*)

Comments, likes and reblogs are welcomed and much, much appreciated :*

                                                       Holding On

 He stands close to the entrance, leaning heavily against the wall, shivering almost imperceptibly despite the ambient warmth.  Watches quietly as Rhodey struggles through his PT session, the first of many.  

He’s not supposed to be here.  Not yet anyway.  His doctors were adamant against him leaving their care so soon, citing the serious nature of his injuries, his body’s acute need for recuperation and rest, the simple fact that he was not ready to be mobile just yet.  But he couldn’t miss Rhodey’s first session.  Wouldn’t.  So here he is.  Even if his legs tremble ever so slightly and the wall behind him is taking on more of his weight than he would like to admit.  Even if his vision grays around the edges every so often, a band of pain tightening around his head as his pulse beats harder and harder against his temples.  Even if his chest feels just a tad too tight, his lungs straining against the discomfort that slowly but surely morphs into more… pain.  

 He needs to be here. For Rhodey.

 He stands up a little straighter as Rhodey glances his way, raises his one good arm in a wave, forcing what he hopes is a smile on his lips.  Rhodey grins back at him before returning his attention to his therapist and the arduous task of movement, and Tony’s smile falls away, his gaze darkening as it lingers on Rhodey’s bowed back, on the bulging muscles of his arms that tremble with the strain of holding him up, on his face, dotted with sweat and lined with pain.  

 My fault, he thinks, the all-too-familiar flare of guilt blazing through him like wildfire, making him choke with the agony more vicious than his physical injuries could ever rival.  My own damn fault.

 He’ll never say it out loud, of course.  Not in front of Rhodey. The man’s still unfailingly loyal to him, (though why, Tony can’t, for the love of him, understand). He will deny it to try and spare Tony’s feelings, call Tony a fool for thinking so.  But Tony knows better, knows it’s true.  He’s the one that screwed up, the one that miscalculated, the one that was too stupid, too blindly trusting, too naïve to see what was right in front of him.  And Rhodey paid the price.

 He grits his teeth as the pounding in his head kicks up a notch.  Resists the urge to whimper his pain out loud – he doesn’t get to complain here, he deserves all this and more.  

He does need to sit down, though.  Soon, preferably, if the slight blurring of his surroundings and the increasingly rubbery feel of his legs is anything to go by.  He can’t afford to pass out here.  Not here.  Not in front of Rhodey.  He doesn’t have the right.

 “I gotta head back,” he calls out as Rhodey prepares for another walk through the parallel bars. Holds up his phone, trying his best to look contrite.  “Got some stuff to take care of.  I’ll see you in a bit, Honeybear.”

 Rhodey pauses his workout to nod at him.  Huffs out a strained, “Get some rest, Tones.  You look like shit,” and then he’s moving along the bars once more, his therapist hovering close by.

 Tony bails. Stumbles outside, the air in the building becoming too stuffy, too stifling all of a sudden, the walls closing in.  The nearest bench is too, too far away for his trembling buckling legs, so he settles for plopping down right on the steps, his good hand clutching the railing like a lifeline.

 He should have died in Siberia, he thinks.  It would have been easier.  No more pain. No more regrets.  No more forcing himself through the motions as he suffocates under the weight of betrayals, failures and mistakes, the latter – largely his own.  No more dreams…  

He longs for a quiet, dreamless rest.  Craves it with the desperation of a man well past the brink of exhaustion.  But every time he closes his eyes (every time he even so much as blinks), it is the same fragmented horror show of mangled, superimposed images that flashes before him: the smoking wreckage of his parents’ car, himself lying half-pinned underneath it on the cold, frozen ground, Steve’s face above him, splattered with blood and twisted in rage, his mother’s desperate screams as his (former) friend’s face is obscured by a flash of star-spangled metal, his father’s shield slamming down onto his chest, over and over and over again...

 He gasps, gagging on the phantom stench of gasoline and blood that fills his nostrils, the all-too-tangible not-quite-memory taking him unawares as it always does these days and overpowering everything else.  Feels the cold – an icy, painful touch all the way to his bones.  Like he’s still there, in that damn bunker, broken, beaten, dying. Like he never left.  

 Maybe he never did…

 Abruptly, he lets go of the railing, presses a trembling hand against his chest, starts rubbing shaky compulsive circles into his throbbing sternum.  Sucks in a desperate lungful of air (New York, spring, warm, not cold, not cold).  “You’re okay”, he exhales, his voice breaking just a tad too much to provide any modicum of conviction.  “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

 “It’s true then.”

 He startles as a vaguely familiar voice intrudes upon his litany of useless self-assurances, whips his head to the side, his eyes widening briefly in shock as he recognizes the person standing not two feet away from him.

 “Mrs. Spencer…” He rises stiffly, digs deep to pull on the pitiful, tattered pieces of his mask to school his features into something neutral, polite.  A smile, perhaps.  He tries for one, at least.  Judging from the very unimpressed raised eyebrow look he’s getting for his efforts he doesn’t quite succeed.

 Her gaze shifts, dark eyes skimming over the bruises on the side of his face, the black sleeve of fabric once again encasing his broken arm, until they settle on his chest, narrowing inexplicably on his right hand still splayed protectively over his bruised heart.  

 He swallows, mouth suddenly bone-dry.  Forces his hand to drop down, letting it hang loose at his side.  It’s no easy feat, leaving himself open like that to someone who views him as the enemy, and the dangerous vulnerability of the gesture makes his skin itch.  

He ignores it.  Pushes the discomfort down, down, down, letting it settle somewhere in the fingertips of his right arm which he curls absently into a loose fist.  Takes in a breath, long and deep.  Listens as it rattles slightly on the slow exhale.  

 “What…uh… what can I do for you?”

 She tears her gaze away from her silent contemplation of his fisted hand, raises her eyes toward him, intent, assessing.  “There’ve been… quite a few reports over the past few days,” she says, cryptic.  “I wanted to verify for myself if there was any truth to them.”  Something in her gaze shifts, a ripple of emotion he can’t quite place, and she purses her lips slightly as if with distaste.  “I can see that there was.”

 “Reports?” he blinks at her in genuine confusion.

 The same odd emotion flickers in her eyes, and he feels the first tendrils of apprehension coiling deep in his belly as he finally recognizes it as pity.

 “It never goes away, does it, the pain of losing your loved ones,” she says, ignoring his question. “It marks you, leaves a kind of emptiness inside you, a dead shadow in your eyes.  I know, ‘cause I see it every time I look in the mirror.”  She smiles, bitter and brittle.  Tilts her head, pinning him with her stare.  “I thought I saw that same shadow in your eyes that time at MIT,” she informs him, and her cheek twitches as if in displeasure. And then she spits out the next words, her tone cold and hard, every word – a vicious slap. “I’d dismissed it then.  Tony Stark – a rich, heartless, self-serving bastard, trying to buy everyone’s goodwill.  How could you possibly know the pain of loss?”

 He flinches despite himself, clenches his fist harder in a desperate attempt to hold on to what little is left of his composure, unsurprised when he feels the wetness under his fingertips, where his fingernails broke the skin.  

He’s heard the words before, in one form or another.  He knows that’s what the world thinks of him, knows that’s the image he’s doomed to project. It shouldn’t bother him, it really shouldn’t.  And it wouldn’t normally.  Because he’s used to it.   He’s fucking USED TO IT. He’s had years to build mask upon mask, to try and perfect his metaphorical armor – a protection from the vultures that circled over him from the day he was born, waiting for a chance to bury their claws in his flesh. He had it dented, broken.  He repaired it each and every time.  Glued the damaged pieces together, buffed out the dents, made it work.  

 Until Siberia.  Until a supersoldier ripped it off completely, crushed it to dust between his gloved hands, red-colored fabric concealing the stains of darker, crimson red – blood, Tony’s blood.  And now there’s no armor left.  Just heavy, bone-deep exhaustion and pain.  Pain, pain, pain.

 He doesn’t say anything in response.  Doesn’t bother wasting his energy on a pointless defense.  Just nods mutely and forces himself not to step back as he braces for more.

 He isn’t quite ready for what follows.

 “For weeks the media was having a field day with this so-called civil war between the Avengers,” she tells him – a strange non-sequitur. “Panelists arguing back and forth, people tearing into each other on social media over who is right – Iron Man or Captain America.  And then that video came out and people just…”  She shakes her head, huffing out a laugh that seems to fall partway between incredulity and amusement.  “Let’s just say you have quite a few more fans now, Mr. Stark.”

 “What video?”

 “There were cameras in the bunker, Boss.”

 It’s FRIDAY, who answers, a hesitant, almost reluctant intrusion from above him, sounding both regretful and defiant somehow.  And he does step back this time, stumbles on the uneven surface of the stairs, staggering drunkenly into the railing.  Slide-drops back down onto the steps as his legs give out on him altogether.  

 “No,” he mumbles, shaking his head in pointless denial.  “No, no, no.”

 “My primary objective is to protect you, Boss,” FRIDAY insists, and she sounds faraway now, her voice muffled by the deafening stutter of his heart.   “I failed to do so in Siberia, but I could not allow people to continue treating Mr. Rogers as a hero after what he has done.  I released the footage of your confrontation… and the video that led to it.”

 He presses his hand over his heart as FRIDAY continues talking, tries desperately to find his breath in the sudden vacuum.  Makes the mistake of closing his eyes – against the words, against Mrs. Spencer’s pointed, piercing, pitying! look, against the goddamn world!  

It’s futile as defenses go, as the words continue to filter through.  But now, so do the images, and before he knows it he’s flooded with them, the scenes flashing before him in his mind’s eye in a cruel, nauseating kaleidoscope: his blood on the concrete, the crunch of broken metal, his mother’s sightless eyes, “He’s my friend, he’s my friend, he’s my friend”, the shield smashing down, cold, freezing air and pain, pain, pain…

 A hand grasps his shoulder and he jolts, eyes flying open in unseeing panic. “No!”

 The hand tightens, sharp fingernails digging hard into his skin, the small pinprick of pain outside his nightmare-stifled consciousness breaking through the surrounding haze, and he becomes aware of FRIDAY’S worried voice, of his name being called over and over, of Miriam Spencer’s face that swims into view, dark eyes awash with concern.

 “–back with me? Mr. Stark?”

 He swallows, throat clicking dry.  Manages a nod, forcing himself not to pull away from this woman, suddenly so close, too close in his space.

 “Here.” An opened water bottle is pushed into his line of vision, and he reaches for it with grateful clumsiness, willing his trembling fingers to close around the soft plastic. “Do you want me to call anyone?” She still hasn’t let go of his shoulder, but her grip has gentled and there’s a softness in her gaze that he doesn’t quite understand.  

 He tips the bottle to his lips, takes a few slow measured gulps.  “N-no,” he murmurs finally.  “There’s…” No one to call, he doesn’t say out loud.  Rhodey has other things to worry about at the moment.  Pepper’s gone, staying as far away from him as she can manage (another thing in the ever-growing list of stuff he managed to fuck up).  So is Happy, gone to stay with Pepper in Malibu as her driver and bodyguard, because “It’s what I know, Tony. This thing with you and the Avengers, this new life you got going. I don’t understand it.  I… I just can’t fit in.”  And now the Avengers are gone, too…  

 “It’s fine,” he denies hoarsely, “I’m fine. Sorry about…,” He waves his bottle-clenching hand in the air, giving her what he hopes is an apologetic smile.  Sets the bottle down on the steps with a rueful smile, shaking off the excess water that had sloshed onto his hand at the sharp movement.  

 She pulls back then, puts her hand in her lap.  “I’m the one who should apologize,” she says, all stiff and primly.  “I had assumed the video was leaked by you.  I didn’t realize…” She trails off, looking uncomfortable for some reason.  Drops her gaze to where her hands are clutching the top of her purse.  “I’m sorry.”

 He frowns at her, confused, his mind too jumbled, too overwrought to process the unexpected change. There’s a chaotic clutter of questions swirling around in his exhausted brain, but all he manages to blurt out is, “Why?”

 She presses her lips together, the black leather creaking in her hands as her grip on the purse tightens.

“I misjudged you,” she acknowledges quietly.  “I didn’t expect you to hear my words that day, but you did.   You did.  And I’m grateful.  It isn’t often that people like us get heard, that a grieving mother can feel like she has someone willing to fight for her, someone who knows firsthand the pain she’s going through” She turns to face him again, eyes bright with unshed tears.  “I came here today because I needed to see for myself that what the reports were saying about you was true.  And to give you this.”  

 She reaches into her purse, pulls out a toy Iron Man figure.  It looks like it’s been played with a lot, it’s scraped and scuffed in places, some paint on the helmet has peeled off.  “It belonged to my son,” she explains, clutching the toy in her hand, gazing down at it with a brittle, wobbly smile. “He had it since he was just a little boy.  Took it everywhere with him, slept with it under his pillow.  Used to tell me he wanted to grow up strong and brave like Iron Man, wanted to help people.”  

 She sniffs, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.  Then gives the toy one last look before she hands it over to Tony, and Tony takes it reverently, cradles it in his hand like a delicate crystal, his mind too stunned, his heart too full to offer her a response.  She doesn’t seem to be expecting one, however, and he startles momentarily as her hand closes over his own, cocooning the toy between their palms.

 “You were always his favorite hero,” she says, and the smile on her face is directed at Tony now, genuine and unexpectedly kind. “I can see now that my son’s faith in you was not misplaced.”  She gives his hand a squeeze and lets go, standing up abruptly.  “You have a lot of people out there supporting you, Stark. A lot of people who have faith in you the same way my son did.  Never forget that.”

 He nods mutely, watching her walk away.  Glances down at the plastic Iron Man in his hand, his fingers closing around the toy on their own accord, his grip tightening convulsively – a drowning man latching on to a straw.  Takes a breath, long and deep, daring to let his eyes slip closed.  And almost laughs with giddy relief as, for the first time since he woke up in the hospital, broken without and within, the images behind his eyelids appear faded and faraway and the only smell that hits his nostrils is the aroma of flowers, sweet and heady after a recent rain.  And he just feels warm.

FIN 

(PS You can find this and my other stories on AO3 under Woland or here on tumblr under the tag “somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes”)