[ CLOSED ] Earth to Earth, Ashes to Ashes

[nonstopnarcissist]

WHO: Tony Stark
WHERE: The Forge, House 34, Watchtower
WHEN: December 2nd
OPEN TO: Liv, Hawke, Rhodey
WARNINGS: Angst? Angst. A lot of angst. Descriptions of people dissolving.

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The Forge - LIV

Usually when there's a box it's left by the house with his name on it Tony opens it outside, checks the contents, and moves them accordingly. Today he's got a metric fuck ton of sand to level and pack for casting nails and parts for the river ferry and not a lot of daylight, so. The box goes on his hip and he carts it over to the forge, leaving it on one of his work tables as he got the frames for packed sand and his master nail ready for a long day of casting. He'll look at it later. Sure sometimes it's materials but- he's teaching himself not to be dependent on handouts from their overlords. Nine times out of ten? It's nothing important or life shattering.

He waits until the fire's up, the ingots he's formed from melting down the ore found on an earlier expedition are ready for the crucible and before he's thought much about it- the box is forgotten in the comforting fog of productive work. Simple, tedious, but good. At least until he hears the door and cranes his head around seeing, well. Liv and in the corner of his eye? The box.

"Hey, do me a favor. Check that and see if it's more ingots? Or whiskey. Whiskey wouldn't be bad. I would but my hands are kind of full-" Wrapped as he handles pouring out nail after nail into the tray of packed sand.


Watchtower - HAWKE

Continuing to work to put off coping emotionally with something- classic Stark move, right? Right. So digging holes for posts to get the burning ache out of his chest drowned out by a burning ache in the rest of his body from physical exertion is totally a thing. It's something that needs to be done, something he can absolutely hand off, and something he'd really rather not have company for. But he digs. Puts his shoulders and back into it, digging up hard earth to fit the post for the next watchtower, mind running through every possible iteration of what she could've been doing, why like this, was she waiting for him? Was she trying to keep the company together? Was she trying to keep the Avengers safe?

Did it hurt? It seemed to hurt Peter and before he knows it he's got the shovel stuck in the hole, his shoulder braced against the wooden haft as he fights down a fresh round of mutinous sobs. He's fine. It's fine. It's just a ring. It's just a box of ashes that smelled like her perfume it's-

He's fine.

It's fine.


House 34 - RHODEY

He is not, in fact, fine. The temptation to bang on Sam's door and demand (beg) for every jar of potato vodka she has left is nigh fucking overwhelming but- Pepper hate it when he drank too much. Hated it when he drank to cope. Hated that his nightmares overtook his good sense, that his paranoia made it difficult to enjoy quiet moments at home. He can't breathe for remembering the acrid dust on the back of his tongue on Titan, can't lock away the memory of her favorite perfume (something he went out and bought on his own, in a retail store, like a normal person, he didn't think she even liked the smell but he put in the effort and she always tried to reward when him when he put in the right amount of effort into normal people things) tainted with that smell.

Drinking's right out.

Calling Bull is fucking tempting- but also not an option. Staying in the forge until the fire's burned down and he's run out of work he can do on his own safely (she'd hate him working himself to a bare nub, the way he ran himself ragged in an attempt to outrun his mind) so. That's out. Talking about it-

He could.

He should.

Words press like a stone in his gut, burn like smoke in his throat, tangles up with every promise he'd broken including that last, fatal error. He should've known better than to promise no surprises.

Trembling tense and tired he makes his way back to the house. Settles on the porch, face in his hands. He needs to talk. Can't find the words- but the feeling's familiar. So Tony does now what he'd done years ago and shoots a quick text to Rhodey to talk to him on the porch.

On porch. Need you. It's bad.

Not 'I'm hurt' because he is and he isn't, the body is fine, the soul is gutted. Not 'want' to look at the stars and bullshit because he can't sleep again. Need. Succinct. No teasing. Deadly serious. When Rhodey arrives he'll have the ring, clean, rolling it around between his fingers, watching the stones catch the light.

Comments

Forge

[living_proof]

"So you're not burning down buildings, that's good to know," I say, faltering in mid-step before turning to the 'that' in question, although it does take a tick to figure out what Tony means. There's a lot of stuff in here.

"Alrighty," I continue, tugging off my gloves to shove them into my coat pocket. "Behind door number one..."

I blink, brow creasing. "Um. I... don't actually know what this is? A practical joke, maybe?"

Beneath the box's lid is just... ash. That's all— No, no, strike that. A faint glimmer catches my eye, and I reach in, eyes rounding as I carefully extract one hell of a rock from the dust.

"Jesus."

[nonstopnarcissist]

A scent wafts up from the box- green and fresh and floral, something that cuts through the iron and smoke in the crucible. It locks Tony up, has him laughing quietly, the sting in his eyes from missing her more than anything else. "That-"

That's Pepper's perfume. He finishes his pour and sets the crucible aside, unwrapping his hands to wander over. "What, is it lingerie? I know I've been bitching about being homesick but that's a bit much-"

But...it's not lace or silk, it's the ring.

Her ring.

"...Liv?"

[living_proof]

Tony is a talker. The king of rapid-fire conversation, he is often wry, occasionally self-deprecating, but never not confident, not as long as I've known him, even when he's quite literally bleeding out. And that is why, right now, immediately, I know something's profoundly wrong even though my brain hasn't caught up to why.

One syllable, my name. Vulnerable enough it's almost childlike. My gaze bounces from the ring to Tony's face and then back again, my features pinching with confusion and then going slack as the pieces slot into place.

"Shit," I exhale. The ring wobbles where I'm holding it up; my hand — My steady as a rock surgeon's hand — has started shaking.

"Tony," I softly begin again, lifting my free hand his way. The forge's fire crackles as some logs settle, golden sparks spinning into the air and then fading. "You should sit down. Let's sit down."

[nonstopnarcissist]

"...what's in the box, Liv?" He knows. He knows that smell underneath Pepper's perfume, it'd been painted on his sinuses when he woke in the tube. Dry and burnt, feathery like paper, powder fine and raw and wrong- clouding the clarity of the diamonds on Pepper's ring.

Ashes.

She's-

It's-

Reaching out isn't a thing he does, doesn't like being handed things, doesn't like the inherent risks but Liv's hand comes up and he can't help but cling, his own grip tight and trembling, eyes locked on the ring in her other hand. "I- right. Sitting that-"

Sitting's a good idea.

[living_proof]

Oh, Jesus. Okay.

This is bad. I clearly have no idea how bad, but in case the heart-wrenching way Tony had earlier said my name wasn't enough of a red flag, I've got him clasping onto me and I can feel him shaking, a fine tremor that travels all the way up my arm.

And he just... listens to me. No argument. Not even a little one.

Right, sitting down. Which is clearly the absolute correct thing to do here but makes me a little sick to my stomach, because we all know why doctors tell people to sit down.

But I'm not delivering the news of someone's death. Am I?

There's a bench a few steps away, and I direct both of us over, my own knees a little wobbly now. I feel a little steadier once I sit, but it's a really close-run thing. I clear my throat, try to call up my dispassionate doctor facade. I'm not very successful.

"Is this her ring?" I ask, watching him. I can't tell if he wants to take it or is afraid of it, the way he's staring.

[nonstopnarcissist]

Ashed. No one that's here was in New York when it happened. All the Avengers- they were in Wakanda. He doesn't know exactly when the mess with Venom and co happened but, they were on the other coast entirely. How would they know? All she had was Happy.

Oh, fuck. Happy.

Tony sits, breath caught in his chest as he extends a trembling hand, palm up, waiting for the ring. He knows what'll be on the surface, the powder fine, utter wrongness of the ashes, but he needs-

It's the ring. He's only held it and worried over it, argued with himself over hows or whys or what ifs for the better part of eight years. Since she put her hand in his chest and held his figurative heart, promising it was going to be okay. Since she took Iron Man in as much stride as possible. Since she stepped up above and beyond even his greatest expectations as CEO. He'd know it anywhere by feel.

"Her engagement ring." A beat, and he has to ask to be sure. He knows the answer but-

Looking in that box is fucking beyond him right now. Shoulders hunched, every upright fiber of his being snapped, the hollow of his chest scooped out entirely he huddles in on himself, eyes dark and distant, brows pinched, bottom lip caught in his teeth. "...Liv. What else was in that box?"

[living_proof]

I'm careful when I lay the ring in his trembling, upturned palm; as much as instinct is telling me he'd never drop anything so precious, he looks like he's about ready to just pitch over.

"It's, um," I begin, and clear my throat again. "It's ashes."

Which is just about the worst thing I could imagine aside from a head in a box, but does it really mean anything? Here, in this place, where we might, maybe, all just be clones even if I hate thinking about that damned bunker and everything that comes with it?

What if it's just trolling? All you have to do is look around to know the people in charge can have a sick sense of humor. Hell, just look at me.

"Tony, it's— They might not be hers. They screw with people, we all know that."

[nonstopnarcissist]

"I'm going to guess-" It's easier to shift gears, go on logical and expositional cruise control than it is to continue riding the drop tower coaster of grief. "That Grumpy Cat didn't explain what happened to him right before he woke up here. That Peter didn't- explain. What happened."

The consequences of their failure. Step one of the Endgame, if Strange was to be believed but- it's hard to remember his determination, the solid confidence in his voice infinitely weary and kind even as he spoke It was the only way.

He'd hoped after talking about the everything with Barnes, they'd be past it. He could box up his horror show of a past and move forward with building shit in peace. With trembling, reverent fingers he buffs the ring clean, taking care to clear every facet of every stone. "Thanos, Infinity Stones, yadda yadda, that all happened. He got all six. Snapped his fingers, half of life in the universe poof. Gone."

Tony raises his eyes and despite himself, his voice wavers, his eyes well up. "Ashes. People just...crumpled into ash. Right in front of me. Parker, Barnes, the Guardians and-"

And.

He can't keep his voice from breaking. "And Pep."

[living_proof]

We've been over this, Tony and I, about the things Bucky and I don't talk about. It's not an intentional emotional withholding so much as moving on, starting another chapter.

But this is the second time in a matter of weeks that Tony Stark is telling me something truly horrific about my boyfriend's past, and I'm not gonna lie, I'm starting to genuinely question the wisdom of this arrangement.

Magic stones, half the people in the universe dead. I knew about this, vaguely. Tony's ward had stood on a chair at a party and ranted about it, but, you know... It sounds crazy, so you don't really pay attention. You start dating a guy, become peripherally aware that it's an actual thing, but part of you still kind of thinks it's crazy because it's abstract. Nebulous.

Not so much.

My own face wants to crumple just at the sight of the tears in Tony's eyes, and I drop my gaze to the ring. "But we're here," I manage, and don't I wish I understood what that actually meant. "He's here. She could be here tomorrow, you don't know."

[nonstopnarcissist]

"It doesn't change that back home I failed." And he keeps getting smacked in the face with proof of it. Couldn't protect Peter, couldn't protect Pepper, couldn't keep the Time Stone out of Thanos' hand, can't work out how his survival is fucking imperitive for some fucking reason, so much so that it's part of the only path to victory that he's got no fucking guideline for but those thoughts keep him up at night often enough that they don't sting quite so much anymore.

This?

This is a new cut along an old fear. When Obie road off after her, when Vanko tried to bomb her, when Killian shot her up with his incomplete bullshit chemical treatment, when she slipped through his fingers-

When she was smart enough to walk away but not enough, god, not near enough to stay away.

Silver linings: it didn't look painful. It seemed instantaneous enough for everyone but Peter.

Yeah, no, focusing on those? Not helping. He clutches the ring in his fist, grinding his knuckles against his forehead as he tries to breathe through the ache in his chest that for once has nothing to do with his fucked up torso. "Maybe. Maybe-"

But did it matter?

[living_proof]

Well, that completely breaks my heart, and not just for the obvious reasons, and it takes me a moment to swallow down the echo of my own issues before I can speak. Forcefully.

"No," I say with a slight shake of my head. "Look, I— I get it. More than you probably know. This thing, this guilt thing because you can't save everyone every, single time, this is me. It's a me thing," I explain, motioning between Tony and myself. "The brains-eating, it gives me visions. Don't know if I mentioned that. And it's like... Okay, I can use this power to help people, right? Avenge people. But people I love still get hurt, or—" I halt, not wanting to say it aloud, not now.

"I'm a hypocrite, sitting here telling you to not blame yourself for what's beyond your control, but only because I don't know how to take my own advice. And I'm telling you, no, Tony. No. It's not on you. You're not God. You're not even some kind of super-powered alien person. You're a man. The best kind of man, the smartest. But still a man. And not everything is on you."