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cap_ironman2008-09-30 09:12 am
thebetch.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-09-30 09:12 am
Entry tags:
Fractured Reflection
Title: Fractured Reflection
Author: TheBetch
Characters/Pairings: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, past Tony/Steve
Genre: Angst ahoy.
Warnings: Uhm, unless you know less about Marvel comics than I do (which is a little hard) and don't know what happened to Cap at the end of Civil War...
Rating: I'd say PG. No swears, no sex, just good old angsting.
Summary: He no longer sees himself in the plate glass in front of him, the reflective surface is just a host of lies, of memories that Tony doesn’t need right now because all he sees is a decimated man.
A/N: This is my first Marvel based fic ever... so please point out any huge glaring discrepancy if you find one, please! (And it's also rather depressing so, if you want happy turn away now).
He looks into the mirror and doesn’t like what he sees – black bags beneath his eyes, more creases across his brow denoting how much of his time that he spends worrying, a distinct pallor to his skin that confirms how much sunlight he hasn’t been seeing due to all of the time he’s locked himself in his basement laboratory. All of which means he hasn’t taken the time to take care of himself really, nothing too out of the ordinary for Tony Stark.
All of those lines across his face don’t worry him, not at all really. Not as much as they would have a few months ago at least. The only thing that worries him at the moment is the redness of his eyes that never seems to go away; those broken blood vessels linger a lot longer than the tears that have already spilled down his cheeks.
His hands shake as he reaches up to his face, a trembling duo of middle and index fingers pressing into the hollow between his lips as if trying to get some color into them by touch alone. Tony remembers what it feels like to have Steve’s strong fingers press gently against his mouth, pliant and prying without a single ounce of aggression behind the movement. Strong, virile Steve Rogers’ gentleness and caring never faded away, especially not during tender, stolen moments away from all others.
Tony sobs against his fingers brokenly and the appendage falls back away from his face and to his side with a heavy thud as flesh meets flesh. He no longer sees himself in the plate glass in front of him, the reflective surface is just a host of lies, of memories that Tony doesn’t need right now because all he sees is a decimated man. It lies to him, telling him that he’s human and he makes mistakes, but that is also silly because mirrors can’t talk, Tony’s just wishing something or somebody would talk to him about this. Remind him that, yeah, it’s all right to grieve for something you didn’t even value when you had the chance. That it’s all right to feel so cold for a while. It shows him that he is indeed a corporeal figure, despite how illusory he feels. How empty he is; how hollow his heart is because he… simply exists in a singular state.
He’s alone. There’s no one behind him in the mirror this morning as he tries to muster up enough desire to brush his teeth or trim his goatee. No familiar presence lingering just to his left, but close enough to give off body heat in the cramped space of Steve’s apartment bathroom. Just open space behind him in his own too large, too empty bathroom. It’s all too much to bear, the weight of his loneliness, even after all of these months. He can surround himself with other people all he wants but it’s just not the same because he doesn’t love them. Doesn’t want them to see just how pathetic he truly is without Steve.
With his shoulders now shaking from suppressed anguish, he has to grip the marble counter to steady himself as he lets the tears come once again. Hot emotion spills down his face in fast rivulets as the words “So sorry Captain” are pulled from his lips in gusty sighs. This isn’t the way things were supposed to be, and he hates it. Hates himself for not being able to go back and change what he did, what he said and who he said it to. Tony knows he messed up, and that’s why this hurts so damn much because he has no way of rectifying it. How do you reconcile with the dead when you can’t really say you’re sorry?
He doesn’t know, in all honesty, because he never was good at apologizing for anything. But he does know that no matter how much time passes he’ll still never be able to look at himself in a mirror again. Not without seeing right into his broken soul and wanting to change that, but not knowing how.
Author: TheBetch
Characters/Pairings: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, past Tony/Steve
Genre: Angst ahoy.
Warnings: Uhm, unless you know less about Marvel comics than I do (which is a little hard) and don't know what happened to Cap at the end of Civil War...
Rating: I'd say PG. No swears, no sex, just good old angsting.
Summary: He no longer sees himself in the plate glass in front of him, the reflective surface is just a host of lies, of memories that Tony doesn’t need right now because all he sees is a decimated man.
A/N: This is my first Marvel based fic ever... so please point out any huge glaring discrepancy if you find one, please! (And it's also rather depressing so, if you want happy turn away now).
He looks into the mirror and doesn’t like what he sees – black bags beneath his eyes, more creases across his brow denoting how much of his time that he spends worrying, a distinct pallor to his skin that confirms how much sunlight he hasn’t been seeing due to all of the time he’s locked himself in his basement laboratory. All of which means he hasn’t taken the time to take care of himself really, nothing too out of the ordinary for Tony Stark.
All of those lines across his face don’t worry him, not at all really. Not as much as they would have a few months ago at least. The only thing that worries him at the moment is the redness of his eyes that never seems to go away; those broken blood vessels linger a lot longer than the tears that have already spilled down his cheeks.
His hands shake as he reaches up to his face, a trembling duo of middle and index fingers pressing into the hollow between his lips as if trying to get some color into them by touch alone. Tony remembers what it feels like to have Steve’s strong fingers press gently against his mouth, pliant and prying without a single ounce of aggression behind the movement. Strong, virile Steve Rogers’ gentleness and caring never faded away, especially not during tender, stolen moments away from all others.
Tony sobs against his fingers brokenly and the appendage falls back away from his face and to his side with a heavy thud as flesh meets flesh. He no longer sees himself in the plate glass in front of him, the reflective surface is just a host of lies, of memories that Tony doesn’t need right now because all he sees is a decimated man. It lies to him, telling him that he’s human and he makes mistakes, but that is also silly because mirrors can’t talk, Tony’s just wishing something or somebody would talk to him about this. Remind him that, yeah, it’s all right to grieve for something you didn’t even value when you had the chance. That it’s all right to feel so cold for a while. It shows him that he is indeed a corporeal figure, despite how illusory he feels. How empty he is; how hollow his heart is because he… simply exists in a singular state.
He’s alone. There’s no one behind him in the mirror this morning as he tries to muster up enough desire to brush his teeth or trim his goatee. No familiar presence lingering just to his left, but close enough to give off body heat in the cramped space of Steve’s apartment bathroom. Just open space behind him in his own too large, too empty bathroom. It’s all too much to bear, the weight of his loneliness, even after all of these months. He can surround himself with other people all he wants but it’s just not the same because he doesn’t love them. Doesn’t want them to see just how pathetic he truly is without Steve.
With his shoulders now shaking from suppressed anguish, he has to grip the marble counter to steady himself as he lets the tears come once again. Hot emotion spills down his face in fast rivulets as the words “So sorry Captain” are pulled from his lips in gusty sighs. This isn’t the way things were supposed to be, and he hates it. Hates himself for not being able to go back and change what he did, what he said and who he said it to. Tony knows he messed up, and that’s why this hurts so damn much because he has no way of rectifying it. How do you reconcile with the dead when you can’t really say you’re sorry?
He doesn’t know, in all honesty, because he never was good at apologizing for anything. But he does know that no matter how much time passes he’ll still never be able to look at himself in a mirror again. Not without seeing right into his broken soul and wanting to change that, but not knowing how.
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poor Tones
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did you read Civil War: Confession?
IT IS AN ENTIRE BOOK OF TONY ANGSTING.
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Hates himself for not being able to go back and change what he did, what he said and who he said it to.
It´s time for new Doom/Iron Man shenanigans with the time machine
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don´t worry - Doom drags him on those time travels every other year...mostly they end up in the Arthurian times, but maybe Tony can travel to another time next ...time^^
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...it got broke.
Damn it, this is heavy
Cheers? :*(
Re: Damn it, this is heavy
Thank you for reading, and go get that chocolate!