I didn’t expect to fall in love with Tony Stark. I didn’t expect to fall in love at all. I thought I had left my heart in the height of the second World War, in the curve of Peggy’s hands. In Howard’s pockets. In Bucky’s last scream. Apparently, I had brought it with me, frozen, but someone had thawed it out as well.
Falling in love- especially with Tony Stark- felt like crashing back into the ice. I expected the jolt, but I was stunned by the impact nonetheless. And then suddenly, like a tsunami wave, I was swallowed by a plethora of feelings- the delightful agony of being at its mercy, its cold tongue licking every inch of my pale skin until everything else froze into place around me, and it was all Tony, Tony, Tony.
It was difficult to cope with the overwhelming feelings at first. I thought I was ill. I was frightened of all that was taking a hold of me, frightened that it’ll consume me one day. Days went, and the glass between us thinned and thinned until our palms were touching. I felt the roughness of his skin against mine, his pulse, his warmth- and sick or not, I didn’t want to ever let go.
Our lives were a tango of kisses and fights. We’d argue about the smallest of things- Steve, I told you I didn’t like the crusts in my bread!- and then make up at the end of the day, the kiss tasting sweeter than it was the night before. I’d wake up in his arms- or him in mine- and breathe in the day and his scent and thank whoever was kind enough to bless me with him.
It’s been three days of waking up to cold air. Three days of quiet breakfasts, three days of having no arguments. It’s been a painfully quiet three days. I can’t remember feeling anything that measured to what I’m feeling now. There’s a blankness, as though the words on the paper were erased and forgotten. A hollowness, an endless void. I had just begun to adapt to the fast-lane life of the twenty-first century, had just begun to feel alive again. As though the universe were playing a joke on me, it pulls the foundation of this new life from under my feet and feeds it to the fires of death.
I miss you, Tony. I miss your sweat-drenched skin and grease-stained shirts. I miss the light in your chest (and I’m not just talking about the reactor). I miss our arguments and your wit and your coffee-breath and the numbers that slipped from your fingertips. I’d rather die a million times than to lose you even once, but I was never given the option. There are still so many things left unsaid, but I don’t know what they are now. I lost them too, along with you.