![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bond_girlA requested double drabble.
We'd Be So Less Fragile If We're Made of Metal.
Iron Man | Tony, Tony, Tony.
205 words. pg.
prompts: headache. metallic taste. evening. for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dgtall
disclaimer: Iron Man belongs to Marvel. Robert Downey Jr.'s handprint belongs on Hollywood Boulevard. lies, do not sue.
why: because my writey is broken. unbetaed because everyone is asleep.
There are days when Tony Stark’s head hurts.
Sometimes, it is because he is waking up sixty-nine minutes too early next to a blonde, empty head and a beautiful bottle of scotch. He wants the taste of neither. Perrier and Pepper is his preferred morning ritual of spark and bubbles.
Sometimes, it is because Jarvis accuses him of being too binary, 96% predictably irresponsible and of having a Teflon hide. Tony should tweak the codes responsible for the sense of humor. It was only a dirty geek joke about an iPod and an iPad shuffling into a chat room. Yes, No, Fail.
Tonight, it is the taste of metal on his tongue. He swallows and it is as bitter as the retreating curve of Pepper’s back. It has been sixty-nine parched hours that Tony has not spoken unless in grunts and in unresolved number sentences made out of empty coffee cups. The ultimate weapon for peace might be an oxymoron, but nobody would argue semantics if Iron Man makes bad guys taste lead.
It is easy being a man. It is a joke being human. It is harder forging himself into a hero. His heart might be running close to gold-titanium alloy, but the iron is seeping through.
We'd Be So Less Fragile If We're Made of Metal.
Iron Man | Tony, Tony, Tony.
205 words. pg.
prompts: headache. metallic taste. evening. for
dgtalldisclaimer: Iron Man belongs to Marvel. Robert Downey Jr.'s handprint belongs on Hollywood Boulevard. lies, do not sue.
why: because my writey is broken. unbetaed because everyone is asleep.
There are days when Tony Stark’s head hurts.
Sometimes, it is because he is waking up sixty-nine minutes too early next to a blonde, empty head and a beautiful bottle of scotch. He wants the taste of neither. Perrier and Pepper is his preferred morning ritual of spark and bubbles.
Sometimes, it is because Jarvis accuses him of being too binary, 96% predictably irresponsible and of having a Teflon hide. Tony should tweak the codes responsible for the sense of humor. It was only a dirty geek joke about an iPod and an iPad shuffling into a chat room. Yes, No, Fail.
Tonight, it is the taste of metal on his tongue. He swallows and it is as bitter as the retreating curve of Pepper’s back. It has been sixty-nine parched hours that Tony has not spoken unless in grunts and in unresolved number sentences made out of empty coffee cups. The ultimate weapon for peace might be an oxymoron, but nobody would argue semantics if Iron Man makes bad guys taste lead.
It is easy being a man. It is a joke being human. It is harder forging himself into a hero. His heart might be running close to gold-titanium alloy, but the iron is seeping through.
