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The wind pulls at his shirt, twisting up in the fabric like a fist. It drags him to the edge, forcing him to overlook the glowing ember that is New York. His steps are slow, weary, an echo of the sure motions that usually carry him through the Tower, through board meetings, through his life. He’s so tired of keeping up the pretense. The ledge asks if he can fly. If he took three steps to the left, he could.
Another snap of wind, this time irritated, and Tony laughs. The night sky bleeds gold, the stars fighting with the artificial light but losing every time. He holds out his hands, curls his toes over the freezing edge. Spreading his fingers, he catches the buildings fragmented and coughing up numbers between the spaces. His mind is so loud but the wind is louder. He wonders if he can fly. Three steps to the left…
There’s a soft displacement of air and the breeze pushes at him in anger for his hesitation. He looks down. If he activated the wrist sensors, the suit would catch him forty eight seconds down. His toes shift and curl. If he didn’t though, he’ll have fifty eight seconds of free fall before gravity calls his bluff. He screws up his face. Fifty eight isn’t that great a difference. The suit would be the better option.
Footsteps scatter the silence.
“You can’t fly without the suit,” Steve says. Tony hmms and holds out his arms, ninety degrees from his body. If he made himself as big as possible, as wide as he could, the descent would alter by only two seconds, due to friction. Interesting. “Tony?”
“You know what I’ve always thought complete bullshit? That people have a natural fear of heights. That’s not it at all; we’re afraid of the fall. We’re afraid of gravity grabbing us, holding us trapped, and calling our bluff. I can look down from this ledge, can tell you the exact time and place that I will lose to gravity. We’ll always lose to gravity. Humans aren’t meant to fly,” Tony says. He looks up again, at the moon hanging lazy in the sky. “It’s why we always look to the sky. We long for it. We want to prove gravity wrong. We want to prove our bodies wrong. But we can’t. We create metal beasts that carry us into the sky, but we’re still held to the damned laws. We can’t fly without help.”
Steve’s closer now, barely a breadth from Tony’s back. Tony can count his heartbeat, a staccato equation that flickers in and out of focus. It messes with the acceleration calculation he has set up. He bats it away, useless now, and curls his toes. He leans forward. Steve’s hand snaps out, bumping against his ribs and dragging up along his chest before settling, rough and uncaring, over the arc reactor. He jerks Tony back against him. He doesn’t speak. Tony balances back on his heels, digs his shoulders into Steve’s chest, into his hold, before letting his feet fall and catching the ledge again. He brings his hands around and touches the air. It breathes exhaust statistics back at him. His mind won’t quiet.
“I can’t fly without help.”
He inhales and Steve mirrors him, his chest pushing Tony toward the edge when he takes a breath, and pulling him away when he exhales. Tony closes his eyes and Steve tucks his nose against the hollow of Tony’s throat. It’s cold.
Steve says, “It’s not wrong to have help.”
The silence allows the wind to come back but it skirts around him, wary now because of Tony’s companion. Three steps to the left and Tony would be covered in metal, lost to the wind, lost to gravity’s hold so long as his technology can keep outrunning her. Lost to Steve. Lost to himself. He could be Iron Man and not Tony Stark. He could fly and never fall. His mind practically vibrates. He can taste possibility like scotch aged to just that year. His smile is only for the city.
“If Tony Stark wasn’t here,” Tony starts, slow, chews the words around and tastes their intent, “would you still consider me a hero?”
“Tony?” His name is a question, one that he’ll spend eternity searching the answer for.
“‘Iron Man, yes; Tony Stark, not recommended',” he quotes. “I wonder how much Tony Stark is required, then, to make this work. Let me rephrase my question. If it was only Iron Man, would I be considered a hero for making him?”
“You are Iron Man,” Steve says, vehement. Tony laughs, bitterness hidden in every twist of sound.
“I am Iron Man.”
The wind catches his tired confession and carries it away, curling tantalizing fingers against Tony’s chin and cheek, mocking him with gravity and making him desperate. He shoves back into Steve, throws him off balance, and takes those three steps to the left. I am Iron Man. Steve doesn’t move, his eyes hooded blue. The metal comes up, lightning fast, peeling away Tony Stark and pasting on Iron Man. I am Iron Man. He flexes his fingers, eyes fluttering closed as the helmet snaps up and over his face. The silence that echoes in that split second before the outside world clicks on, before lights shoot up, before the darkness is chased away by Jarvis’ curious voice, encompasses everything Tony Stark is. When he opens his eyes, Iron Man stands in his place. Steve’s face fills the HUD, bright against the numbers. Iron Man falls backwards off the building.
Tony doesn’t turn on the repulsors until forty nine seconds pass. Iron Man isn’t afraid of heights. Tony is afraid of the fall.
I am Iron Man.