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- Tony Stark
About two weeks ago, Maria Stark had come down the stairs of the Mansion and told Tony that, unfortunately, she would not be able to celebrate Christmas with him.
She had been very apologetic about it, issuing all sorts of excuses and promises, but Tony had not been particularly impressed.
Or surprised. He had seen it coming, after all: Howard would do anything to get away from any semblance of interaction or bonding with his son, and that everything included taking his mother away from him during Christmas.
It had hurt to find out that Maria had, once again, been unable to say ‘no’.
But again, Tony had seen it coming, and everytime it hurt a little less (or so they said; he could not tell the difference).
It was why a plan to throw an epic Christmas party had been put in motion before he had received any confirmation from them, a party where he’d hopefully drink and/or waste all of Howard’s precious alcohol and force the man to celebrate a sucky Christmas, wherever he was hiding.
Tony pressed the can of beer against his forehead, eyes fixing automatically on the jolly looking Christmas tree in a corner of the room.
They had made it together, the tree. They had made it that same morning, before Howard and Maria had left.
She had made him promise to turn it on on Christmas Eve and to keep it on until she got back, so that she could put his presents under it for him to open after Christmas (she had said ‘their’, meaning her and Howard; but Tony had known better).
Tony had not kept his promise.
She had not either.
If she had kept her promise, Tony would not be laying on the couch of his living room, still in his funeral clothing, not hungover only because he had never quite sobered up.
But here he was.
On the couch of his darkened mansion, ignoring the whispering of Ana and Edwin and whoever else came by, day-afternoon-and-night drinking, staring at the last thing he and his mother had done together, and trying to not drown.
Trying to not drown in his disappointment, or in his grief, or in his rage.
The knot in his throat grew tighter, and Tony forced himself to take another sip of the drink.
The Mansion had always felt huge. It was huge, because Howard needed physical manifestations of how much money he had, so that he could show it off and make people jealous of him.
Tony could not truthfully say that he had grown up in the Mansion (he had grown up in boarding schools and MIT and summer camps), but all of his life he had felt that the Mansion was too big. With his parents always gone, and the help trained and paid handsomely to be invisible, the whole space had felt too big for the kid he had never been.
It was worse now.
With most of the help having been let go in a fit of drunken rage or away for the holidays and his parents… well, it was the emptiest the Mansion had ever felt.
The silence and the emptiness felt like a real and heavy weight on his back, and Tony hated it.
He hated every part of it. Hated having to see it, having to feel it, having to even know it.
Hated having to think about it, most of all.
“Young sir. Young sir?”
Tony wondered, as he opened his eyes and shot Jarvis a glare, when exactly the man would make the transition from ‘young sir’ to ‘sir’.
The ‘sir’ of the house was gone now, wasn’t he? Because Howard had gotten on the wheel drunk and proceeded to kill himself and his wife. He had killed himself, and now Tony was the supposed ‘master’ of the house.
He was now the ‘man’ of the Mansion.
Wasn’t that hysterical?
He was sure that Howard was more pissed off about Tony being the new/future CEO of SI and ‘man of the house’ than he was about finding himself in hell.
He was not sure if the place existed, but Tony was sure that any afterlife he found himself in, Howard Stark would absolutely consider himself in hell.
Good, he thought, bitterly. He hoped that it was terrible and miserable for him.
“Young sir.”
“What?” snapped Tony, opening his eyes again and struggling to put into focus the upside down figure of his butler. He ignored the concern Jarvis had never bothered to hide (a concern that Tony swore was his very first memory), glowering. “What do you want?”
“Are you sure you do not wish for me to call your friends? Miss Hope and James Rhodes called again-”
“They have their own things and holidays,” said Tony, immediately closing his eyes again. “I don’t need them.”
He viciously squashed the memories of tattoos, full moons, soft eyes, big smiles, comfortable hugs and bracelets from his mind.
He was fine, and they had their things going on anyway. They did not deserve to be bummed out with the fact that Tony was a mess and couldn’t deal with a simple fact of life.
They had lost Carol not too long ago, and Stephen had lost his sister. Tony was not going to make them deal with his own emotions, on top of it all.
They deserved better than him.
“Young sir, I must insist-”
“You’re fired,” said Tony, not opening his eyes again. “Wait. Didn’t I already fire you? I don’t need you, Jarvis. I am fine.”
He heard the butler sigh. “What would you have me tell James Rhodes, if he is to call again?”
“He won’t,” said Tony, confidently. He had told Rhodey he was fine already, and Rhodey had believed him. He and Hope had both believed him and gone back home.
It was fine.
It was completely fine.
- James Rhodes
People had, once or twice, told Rhodey that he was sometimes too loyal.
Rhodey had never quite understood how that could be a flaw. How could one be ‘too’ loyal? How could someone love and want to care for someone ‘too much’?
It hadn’t made much sense to him.
Until now.
“Have you tried the potatoes?” asked his mom, hopeful eyes fixed on Jeanette. “I made them the way you like them.”
“Dad likes them this way too,” said Jeanette, not looking up from where she was playing around with the food on her plate. She hadn't eaten a single bite. “Where is he?”
Mom sighed. “You know he’s at work, baby. He will-”
“I just don’t understand-”
“Jeanette-”
“If he’s ashamed of me, why doesn’t he just come out and say it?” she demanded, ignoring Rhodey completely. “I mean, what exactly is he waiting for? I know it, you know it-”
“He doesn’t-”
“-Sorry I am not perfect-”
“-For the love of god-”
“-It was an accident-”
“-Killed yourself-”
Rhodey glanced at the phone on the wall in the hallway, and wondered if it had perhaps rang and he had missed it. It had not been that long since the last time he had called, but that did not mean that he couldn't have missed Tony’s callback.
Maybe-
He forcefully dragged his eyes away from the phone, trying to quell the guilt in his chest.
This was the type of choice that they gave you on ‘Would you rather?’ and you then ended up saying ‘Oh, I can’t choose, it’s too hard!’
Except that this was real life, and Rhodey had had to choose.
On one side, his sister. His blood sister, who he had paid so little attention too this year - between school, the AirForce and his friends - that he had not noticed or recognised the obvious warning signs of addiction until his mother had called him, half out of her mind with terror, because she was seizing and foaming from the mouth on the ground of the living room from an overdose.
On the other side, his brother. His brother from another mother, who was sitting alone in a Mansion too big for himself, mourning the death of both his parents, who he had only buried two days ago, two days before Christmas.
No matter who he chose, Rhodey felt like he was abandoning someone.
Either he was abandoning his sister who already felt like their father had turned his back on her; or he abandoned his best friend, the boy he had promised to protect and keep safe since the moment he had met him at MIT.
He had chosen his sister, in the end.
The youngest of the two, the one he had accidentally let down once before.
But he could not help but look at the phone on the wall, hoping that, perhaps-
“And you?” suddenly asked Jeanette, making him focus on her. Her lips were trembling, and Rhodey noted with dismay that her eyes were now red rimmed. “Is that why you didn’t invite Tony? Because you’re ashamed of me too?”
“I am not ashamed of you, J,” said Rhodey, putting a hand over her trembling one.
"You are. You should be, and you-"
“I am not," repeated Rhodey, decidedly. "I love you and I am not ashamed of you. And I did invite Tony. He just didn’t come - but again, that was not because of you. He just... you know. The funerals were just the other day.”
He saw the second Jeanette remembered the accident, and forced himself to not feel any type of way about her forgetting about it.
It was not her fault. It was not anybody's fault.
“Do you want to call him, baby?” asked his mom, looking at him in concern.
Rhodey looked between her and Jeanette, who was also quick to nod.
“God, go,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”
“Hey,” said Rhodey, scooting his chair closer to her, and motioning for his mom to stay where she was. Roberta did, but Rhodey could tell she wasn’t very happy with it. “It’s fine, Jennie. It’s fine. You’re my sister.”
She grabbed the hem of his shirt, looking down at her lap. “I know I fucked up,” she said, sniffing. “I do know. But I’m just… I’m so… I’m so…!”
“I get it,” said Rhodey, putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest (he noted that she was now even smaller than Hope or Tony, and tried not to hold her tighter). “I mean, I don’t know what you’re feeling. But I am here to listen, and I love you no matter what, Jennie. Okay? No matter what.”
“Jim-”
“No matter what,” he repeated, wrapping his other arm around her.
Jeanette continued to hold him, though she lifted her head slightly. “Don’t you need to call?”
He did.
He really did.
“Stephen and Hope will do that,” said Rhodey, and pretended he did not feel guilty at his own words. “I am here with you.”
Jeanette sniffed, burying her face in his chest immediately. His mom smiled, also appearing teary eyed as she mouthed him ‘thank you’.
It soothed the guilt a little.
- Hope Van Dyne
Hope was not sure why she had thought that anything was going to change with them moving to Los Angeles.
She hadn’t really.
The only reason Hank had decided to move was ‘Tony’s influence’ on her. Because of course in his mind Tony, who was the same age as her and more interested in building stuff than he was in running anything, was manipulating her in order to steal the Pym particles from her.
As if he could ever be interested in being Hope's friend because they had known each other all their lives and grown up close for a large part of it.
No one could ever be interested in her, oh no. They had to be secretely interested in Hank and in his damned Pym particles.
He hadn’t said it in so many words, but he might as well, since that was what he had meant.
That was all that mattered to Hank.
His precious Pym particles, and all of the ways Tony and the evil Starks could steal them.
Nevermind that SI had no interest in shrinking tech, nevermind that they were 10 times more successful than Pym Tech was, nevermind that Tony had no hold in the company whatsoever.
Nevermind any of that.
So no, Hope had not really thought that anything was going to change with the sudden move to the West Coast.
But, as she watched the long empty table she was sat at the head of, she realised she had sort of hoped it would.
She had hoped that, for once, she wouldn’t be sat alone at a table way too big for a single person, eating one portion of a Christmas dinner made with way too many people in mind.
Hope took a bite of the turkey, barely able to appreciate its taste.
Had Hank even picked a single thing on the table? There had been some presents under the tree that morning, and she wondered, had he picked a single one? Had he looked at anything and thought, ‘my daughter would love this’?
Was he even aware that he had a daughter?
Sometimes Hope felt as if Hank was convinced that she had died right alongside her mother.
It would certainly explain a lot of his behaviour towards her.
Thinking of her mother made her think of Tony’s mom, and back to Tony.
Had she been in New York, Hope would have been there with him. She would have sneaked out of her place, had she had to, and found her way to Tony’s place.
She remembered what it had been like, when her mother had died. She remembered the grief, the confusion, all the bottled feelings that she had not been sure of how to get out of her body.
Tony and her, they were two sides of the same coin, according to their friends.
It was a little bit true, because Hope did not have to think much to know how Tony was feeling right now.
Hope might have lost both of her parents (though only one physically), but she had had Carol, and she had had Tony himself. Stephen had also been there, no words, but a solid presence close to her.
And when she had met Rhodey, he had never once floundered when hit with her sudden surges of grief.
Tony had Mr Jarvis, and that was it. That was it, because Rhodey was busy with Jeanette, Stephen had not answered any calls since the day of the funeral, and Hope was all the way in Los Angeles.
And Carol was still missing.
Dead, had said Stephen. Whenever Hope said she was missing or Rhodey said she was gone, Stephen always corrected them with ‘dead’.
Hope really hated that.
Because Carol was not dead.
Something had happened, something that the military had caused and was covering up.
But that did not mean that Carol was dead.
Carol was not dead.
Stephen might say whatever he wanted to say, and Tony and Rhodey could believe whatever they wanted to believe, but Hope believed in their oath.
It might be childish, and it might be unscientific, but she knew it was real. She knew that the oath was real, and if Carol was dead, their tattoo would know. They would know.
Hope would know.
But Hope did not know, which meant that Carol was alive.
Carol was somewhere out there, alive, and she’d come back. She’d come back, and she would fix everything the way only Carol knew how to fix everything.
Hope was certain of this.
Last year’s Christmas Carol had managed to kidnap Hope and Stephen from boarding school and get everyone at Hope’s mansion for Christmas.
Hope just had to hold on to everyone long enough for Carol to get back.
She could do that.
She had to.
- Stephen Strange
“Young man, are you lost?”
Stephen shook his head brusquely, not bothering to raise his head from the ground.
“I am only asking because you have been waiting here for several hours, at this point,” continued whoever it was who was speaking to him. “Which train are you taking? Perhaps-”
Stephen ignored whatever the man said next, continuing to stare at the ground with unfocused eyes.
He was not sure of how long he had been waiting at the station.
Long enough that he knew he had lost the train he was supposed to take, that was for sure.
The train his mother had bought him a ticket for, to get him back to the farm in time for Christmas dinner.
Christmas dinner.
As if it could be Christmas dinner.
Sure, his dad could get and gut a turkey. His mom would stuff and cook it for them. Victor would play the guitar. Stephen would play the piano.
But who was going to sing and dance?
Certainly not Donna.
Because Donna was dead, and dead people did not sing and dance.
How could it be Christmas dinner at the Strange household if Donna was not there to sing and dance? Simple, it couldn’t be.
It was incredibly stupid to pretend it could or would be, and Stephen hated incompetency and stupidity.
So why, really, should he entertain his family’s attempt at moving on from the death of his sister?
It was stupid.
It was not going to happen.
It simply wasn’t.
So Stephen had not gotten on the train he was supposed to get on.
Nor had he gotten on the next one.
Or the next one.
He had stayed right on the bench until the last train going his way had left the station, and still now, he remained where he was.
“The last train to New York will depart at 22:34 from platform 3.”
Platform three, seized a part of his brain.
It would take Stephen less than two minutes of his usual walk to get on that train.
Everything he needed for a short holiday was already packed. All Stephen would have to do was get on the train, and then get off once he got to New York.
Then, he’d hail a taxi to Manhattan, and walk over to Tony’s Mansion.
He glanced at the bracelet on his wrist, which he had not realised he had been thumbing the entire time.
Tony always seemed to understand what Stephen felt or wanted. He looked at him, with those big caring brown eyes, and he just seemed to get him. He sometimes got him before Stephen knew he needed him to, even. Sometimes Stephen would turn around, and Tony would be watching him, silently, knowing.
If he went on platform three and got on the train, it’d take him to Tony.
“The last train to New York will depart at 22:34 from platform 3.”
And Tony, perhaps, would tell him what this awful feeling in his chest was.
He’d tell him why the fact that he had never shown his tattoo to Donna hurt like a punch in the gut.
Why the thought of going back to the farm made him physically ill.
Why Christmas without Donna singing and dancing felt like blasphemy.
Why his body refused to move from the bench and get on a train going anywhere.
Why time inside of the station felt like it was frozen still, and Stephen with it.
Tony would be able to tell him.
“The last train to New York will depart at 22:34 from platform 3.”
Or Rhodey.
Or Carol.
Or Hope.
But Hope was all the way in California, Carol was dead, Rhodey was with his sister, and Tony had lost both of his parents in one swoop a week ago.
They had their own problems. Their own pains.
And who was Stephen to add his own on them?
“The last train to New York is now departing from platform 3.”
Stephen pressed his thumb against the sharp of the band hard enough to hurt.
But he remained on the bench, with his bag between his legs.
(The next time the man from the station approached him, Stephen left)
- Carol Danvers
Vers stared at the empty expanse of Turroki with a crease between her brows, a hand rubbing the material of her suit under her chest.
She did not know why, but something about the snowy expanse before her reminded her of smiley faces and a hot sweet drink she did not remember the name of. Colourful lights and evergreen seasonal trees. Fat men with red bellies and small boxes with patterned paper.
And of a girl screaming in delight while a boy shouted in horror in a vehicle she did not recognise, and of a short boy launching himself at her while another older one tried to threaten them all with 'mama's' cookies in a strange house too big for five people, and of a sound that was hers but that she did not remember ever making.
It made her chest ache.
“Vers?”
She forcefully shook those ghosts from her mind, and turned around.
“Coming!”