Marvel Imagines

two years ➳ tony stark

inspired by Taylor Henderson's Moving On, Garrett Kato's Holding on to You and Niall Horan's Put A Little Love On Me.

trigger warning: contains one swear word, alcohol, and a mention of cigarettes. please don't read if these topics make you uncomfortable.

. . .

11:56 pm.

Colours of the night blurred together. Rainbows of red, yellow, neon pink, orange, all one in his eyes. Smoke of cigarettes filling his lungs, breathing it in with lazy smiles. Rain, cold and sharp, seeping into disheveled clothes. Shaking hands toss his tie aside, unbutton the first button of his shirt. Shirt hanging loose as he slipped it out from his trousers. Hair, dripping wet, falling in his eyes, clumped together. But Tony pushes it away.

Phone light bright in his eyes as he takes it from his pocket. Fingers shaking as they type in a too familiar number. There they are—all the reasons why he shouldn't call. It's been two years. Two long years without you and this was his life. The life you left behind.

12:03 am.

With a hand shielding his eyes, Tony typed in an all too familiar number. Forgetting all the reasons why he shouldn't. He had no inhibitions, no balance on his wandering feet, no consequences of a drunken phone call to an unforgettable ex-fiancée. And it was glorious, it was magical, it was every good thing.

The phone call came from no inhibitions, and so you answered his drunken mistake with anger.

"What the hell, Tony? It's past midnight."

And he moans when he hears your voice, raw with anger and hurt and loss. Silky yet jagged, ripped at the seams. You weren't happy to hear from him now.

"Mmm, baby girl, is it? Can't really tell, light's too bright, can't see nothing. Colours hurting my eyes." Palm of his hand rubs his eye, pout on his lips. "Pick me up?"

"Are you drunk? Oh, Tony... What about Happy? Pepper? Can't they pick you up?"

Screw Happy. Screw Pepper, too. He wanted you.

"Don't know, don't care, I need you, baby doll. Pick me up?"

And his drunken mind knew you'd give in. You may have hated this life, this life of sleepless nights with endless drowning in caffeine, but oh, did you love him. The way he'd devote himself to his work, to his passion, to you. How he'd know exactly how to push all your buttons yet adore him at the same time. How to ask for forgiveness, for you to do him a favour, for you to marry him.

He knew your coffee order, your Netflix password; when you needed him to challenge you, when you needed him for comfort. Permanently entwined in his memory, he could never forget the way you curled into his side in the morning, the way you made your hot chocolates with heaped spoonfuls of Nutella, the way you cried every day for the three months he left your life in Afghanistan.

You remembered it all too well. Which was why you couldn't leave him to wander the New York streets in the rain, alone. With a sigh, you ask, "Where are you?"

Somewhat sober now. He makes out the name of a café.

"Okay, that's not too far. Do not go anywhere, I mean it Tony, I'm coming to get you now. Be there soon."

"Alright, see you soon, love you—" The words easily fall from his mouth, and he half-hopes you hadn't heard him.

You've hung up.

He grins. You'll be here soon, for the first time in two years. But then the realisation of what he's done sinks in, and his heart tightens in fear. Full sober now. You. With him. Here. For the first time in two years. Because he was drunk. And called you. Shit. What the hell was he thinking?

12:17 am.

You wear an umbrella and a frown. Rain's falling harder now, and you squint to see. "Tony?"

"Over here." Muffled voice, shivering form, regretful eyes watching you in the dark.

Heart aching, mind warning, your arms wrap around him under the comfort of the umbrella. And he's cold, he's soaking wet, and you can't stop thinking about the night you left him.

"Come on." You're pulling him along now, and he's sagging as his arms wrap around you too.

The car's not far away, and he needs help getting in. Drive home is silent, thick with memories and regrets and unspoken words.

12:45 am.

Home now, and Pepper takes him from there, all worried eyes and thankful smiles and apologies. You dismiss her with a wave of your hand, shaking your head with tired eyes, more than eager to go home and forget. She closes the door, leaving you to your thoughts.

1:28 am.

Bed is cold. Sheets are crumpled. You don't care. All you care about is your bloodshot eyes and consuming thoughts and the drowning, the crying, the pure joy of settling down. But those thoughts mean nothing now. Just a silly fantasy of the life you left behind two years ago.