"you do it to yourself, you do and that's what really hurts is that you do it to yourself, just you you and no one else" — inspired by just, radiohead
during the events of iro man 2:
blood toxicity: 46%.
tony winced as the device pricked his finger, the red dot of blood blinking on the screen before the numbers appeared.
he let out a quiet sigh and sucked the blood from his fingertip, slipping the tester back into his jacket. the sound of the gala behind him, laughter, applause, the steady hum of a jazz band, he should have been enjoying himself. it was his party, after all. another fundraiser, another photo op, another excuse to make everyone believe the world and tony stark were fine.
but it wasn’t. and he wasn’t.
the arc reactor beneath his shirt pulsed faintly. it kept him alive, sure, but it was killing him too. he could feel it now, the fatigue, the dizziness, the taste of metal at the back of his throat. every time he put on the suit, every time he pushed the reactor too hard, the poison crept further through his veins.
someone called his name. tony straightened, forced a smile, and raised a glass like nothing was wrong.
the city was still smoking. the fight downtown had been brutal, another tech fueled maniac trying to make a name off stark industries. glass and fire littered the streets. his HUD had flickered out mid-fight, one repulsor overloaded, and he’d barely made the landing back home without tearing through half the compound’s exterior wall.
now he sat slumped in the chair near the workbench, shirt half undone, skin faintly red where the reactor’s heat had pressed against it for too long. there was a cut just above his brow and a smear of soot along his jaw.
his hand trembled slightly as he removed the arc reactor from his chest. the palladium plate inside hissed faintly when he pulled it free. it was fried again, warped, discolored, lined with cracks that spiderwebbed across the metal.
he stared at it for a moment before tossing it onto the growing pile of dead plates.
he wiped a hand over his face and leaned back, exhausted.
"genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," he muttered under his breath, bitter. none of those words fixed dying.
after a long minute, he slid a new plate into the core and reattached the reactor. the hum filled the silence again, that faint artificial heartbeat. it was almost comforting. almost.
his birthday crept up quietly. he had spent most of the morning in briefings, pretending the dark veins on his chest weren’t spreading further up his neck. pretending he hadn’t started wearing higher collars just to hide them.
he was supposed to host a small party that evening. just friends, he had said, though everyone knew that meant press, military brass, and whoever wanted to orbit close enough to bask in the glow of tony stark.
you knocked once before entering. his assistant. though by now, you handled more than any assistant ever should, scheduling, covering for him, cleaning up after his chaos.
he was standing in front of the mirror, shirt half unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his neck. the reactor glowed faintly beneath the fabric, veins branching outward like cracks in porcelain.
he didn’t notice you at first. the look on his face was distant, almost blank.
when he heard the door open, he straightened immediately, tugging the shirt closed and buttoning it up with practiced ease.
"come in," he said, forcing some lightness into his tone. "don’t just hover in the doorway."
you crossed the room and set the small case of watches down beside him. he gave a low whistle as if he was trying to distract from the way his hands shook slightly when he reached for one.
he sat in the chair by the mirror, and you leaned in to cover the small scratch on his cheek, a souvenir from the last mission gone sideways.
your fingers paused when you saw the shadow on his neck, a dark branching mark under the skin.
"what’s that?" you asked quietly.
tony turned his head away before you could touch it. "nothing. road rash," he said, almost too quickly.