Chapter Text
They say that you feel warm while you die of hypothermia. It’s a little bit strange to think about, especially when you’re considering it while you die slowly, of hypothermia. Tony wants to laugh, but he doesn’t know if he can. The reactor is in front of him, blinking slowly as the cold seeps in, and there is a sharp aching pain in his chest, more from his heart than from his wounds. Numbness overtakes his limbs, and he’s too busy debating over whether it’s happening quicker than usual because of the restricted blood flow or he’s bleeding out to hear Friday call for him.
“Boss! Boss, stay awake.” He licks his cracked lips, which he can already imagine are turning blue.
“Yeah, I’m here, baby girl,” he wheezes out. His vision is getting hazy, and the periphery is fading to black.
“Another suit is en route. Captain Rhodes is inbound as well.”
“No, no, Rhodey’s supposed to be resting,” he says. It would be a whine if his voice wouldn't stop cracking. his throat is dry. He’s starting to feel warmer now. “Tell Honeybear to go back.” He laughs as the memories of the nickname start to hit. “Fri?”
“Yes boss?” Her voice is worried, and he thinks about just how quickly she’s grown that she’s able to worry for him in such little time.
“I think I’m dying.” He laughs. “Again. Desert to arctic, huh? I always loved the drama. Put that in my obit, okay?”
“Stay awake, boss. He’s twenty minutes out.”
“I don’t know if I have twenty minutes,” Tony says. His entire body is warm warm warm and hot metallic liquid is rushing up his throat and pooling in his mouth.
Rhodey’s voice rings around him.
“Tones?”
“You’re supposed to be resting.” The rebuke is more of a soft statement as he gets more and more tired. “You’re gonna take longer to get better now.”
He closes his eyes for a second. A long, long second. God, he’s tired.
“I’m fifteen minutes out, Tones. Stay awake for me. I’m almost there.” Rhodey’s voice is panicked, like that time he’d found Tony passed out on the bathroom floor after Maria’s death.
Maria’s murder, his mind supplies. Maria’s murder at the hand of Steve’s best friend. Maria’s murder that Steve knew about. Maria’s murder that Steve hid from him.
“Fifteen minutes is a long time, Honeybear. You know I’ve never been good at waiting.” Rhodey’s laugh is panicked.
“True. You’re a stubborn little shit, though. You’ll pull through.” Tony hums. It’s getting harder to breathe, and the blood is choking him. He coughs and it spills onto his lips. The drops are a pretty contrast to the crisp white of the snow and the ice of Steve’s eyes.
“I miss my mom, Rhodey. Do you think I’ll see her?”
“You’re not dying, Tony. I’m almost there, and I’m not letting you die.”
“I’m not going to heaven though. I know that’s where she is. So many things I’ve done wrong. So many people I’ve killed. I’m just like him, Rhodey. My mom was murdered, and I’m a murderer.”
“What are you talking about, Tones?” His eyelids are heavy and the world is so warm and he is so so tired.
“Steve knew,” is all he can say. “He knew.”
“Tones?”
“Boss? Boss, please stay awake. Please.” The lilting Irish accent is tinny and far away. He's warm again on the inside. She's grown so much in these few short years. He won't be here to see how far she'll go. I’m sorry, Fri, he wants to say. I’m sorry Jarvis.
He thinks of Yinsen, of Obidiah, of all the people who died at his hands.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—
Blasters land behind him. The sound of metal running towards him is loud, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. All he can see is the stripes of his father's shield-the one his father loved more than him-ramming into his chest over and over and over again. He always forgets that what's behind his eyes is always a nightmare.
Tony falls asleep as Rhodey’s shadow blocks Siberia’s harsh light from his face.
“Tones,” Rhodey says. “What did they do to you?” They are in the jet, and it's warm not just on his limbs this time, but he can't open his eyes. If he does, Rhodey will be able to see the tears, and he knows that if he cries, Rhodey will too. He can't bear to see him cry. He didn't cry when he fell, not when he found out he would never walk again.
Tony can't be the one to make him cry now. If he does, that's just another strike in his ledger. He winces at Natasha's words. I want to wipe out the red in my ledger , she had said. The UN is adding more now. Shit, he has to deal with that. His heart starts to race, and the monitor he's hooked up to beeps.
He has so much to do and so much to fix and so much to atone for and so little time—
"Calm down, Tony," Rhodey says, holding him down as he starts thrashing. "You're okay. We're okay. Just tell me what happened." At those words, Tony stops. He lets it all wash over him, lets the video of his mother crying out his name flow through his eyes, lets the vibranium of Steve's shield hit his heart again, lets himself see the metal arm wrapped around her throat, the one that belongs to the man only a few feet away. He lies back down and closes his eyes.
"You should have let me die," he tells Rhodey. His breath is shallow and for some reason, he's hot hot hot sweating burning hot
You should have let me die.
He is eight when he sees Steve Rogers for the first time.
He's pressing ice to his face after his father had hit him for sneaking down into the lab. He'd been able to dodge the glass that was thrown, but still, Howard was able to grab him, and laid two on him before he could scramble up the stairs. Jarvis had been in the kitchen, and caught Tony as he jumped into his arms.
"You know better, young sir," he said as he wrapped the bag in a rag. "Than to go down when your father is working."
"But he's never actually working. He's just sitting there drinking and thinking of Steve." He says the name like it's a curse. And in a way, it is to him. Every single thing he does is never good enough. Steve was always better. A hero , his father says. A real man, no sissy, when Tony cries from the pain of the beatings. The son I never had.
His son is right here. The whole time, his son is right here. But he doesn't matter.
Tony never matters.
"Yes, young sir. But that is what he calls work." Jarvis presses it gently against his face, and Tony places his hand over the butler's. Jarvis picks him up to go up the stairs.
"I fixed his missile design," Tony states. "I left it on his desk, but he caught me before I could leave."
"You didn't tell him?" Jarvis asks as they reach Tony's room. "You said you would the last time."
"No. He'll figure it out one day." He'll be proud . "He says that real men don't brag." He opens the door and rests Tony in the bed. "I'm a better engineer than him."
"Yes, sir. You are."
"I'll be a better man than him." It's meant to be a statement, but it comes out more of a question. Jarvis nods and pulls the covers over him. He reaches beside his head to turn off the light.
“Yes, you are.”
"I wish I was Steve," Tony whispers. Jarvis hums and sits back down on the edge of the bed. "He loves Steve." Like he doesn't love me, goes unsaid. When his mom is lucid, she loves him too, but that isn't often these days.
"The world has already had a Steve. We need a Tony. Tony Stark is special. There's never been one before."
"Tony Stark is special," he repeats to himself. Jarvis smiles. "I'm special."
"Yes, young sir. More so than anyone I've ever known." Jarvis turns the light off with a click. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight Jarvis," he says into the dark of the room. He pulls the covers over his head and turns on the flashlight. Carefully, he unfolds the picture that he'd snatched off his father's worktable. Howard was too mad about seeing him- children should be seen and not heard, Anthony- to pay attention to anything else. As he flattens out the creases, the face of Steve Rogers appears in front of him.
He's handsome, square jaw and blond hair and eyes bluer than the Arctic Sea that he was lost in. His smile is bright, and his frame nearly takes up the entirety of the space. Howard looks small next to him, and younger. His dark hair is slicked back and Tony nearly doesn't recognize him, because he's smiling. Looking up at Steve like he's the best thing he's ever seen. Next to him is Aunt Peggy, young and beautiful in a red wrap dress with matching lipstick and black heels, her eyes not haunted like they are now. He turns it around, sees April 1945 scrawled in blue pen on the back.
April 1945, he thinks. The last time my father was happy.
He turns the picture back over and stares at Steve's face. He memorizes it. The curve of his brows, the dimple on his right cheek, and the glaring white of his smile.
He tears up the picture and throws it in a drawer.
He hates Steve Rogers.
As Tony sits there, the doctor telling him his metal ribcage is too fragile to risk puncturing his heart and lungs, he realizes he will never be able to fly again. The suit that had protected him for so long risks killing him.
His ears ring with the sounds of vibranium hitting iron, the whistle of the sharp arctic wind blowing by.
“Tony, do you understand?” Dr. Lee asks him.
“Tones,” Rhodey says. He moves his wheelchair up to the bench. Tony can’t look at him. “Answer her, bud.”
“I understand,” he croaks out. “I got it.”
Iron Man is dead. Now there is only Tony Stark. And he knows that has never been enough.
He thinks he hates Steve Rogers even more than he used to love him.