Lines

AN: THIS A/N IS SPOILER-Y BUT I HAVE TO PUT IT HERE OKAY.

Very heavy content warnings. Potential trigger for self harming. If you are easily affected by graphic descriptions of self-harm, do not read this story. Please note that this is by no means any kind of instruction manual for tackling such issues. This is definitely not the best way to confront people who self-harm, nor it is suggesting that self-harm is an ideal solution to personal problems. In all, this is a piece of fiction, and must be viewed as such.

Writing soundtrack: My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade, Green Day's American Idiot and Panic! at the Disco's A Fever You Can't Sweat Out.

The human body had always fascinated Tony. That something so natural would spend so much time covered up by things that were so unnatural.

He never used to understand it. But later, he was grateful for it, regardless.

The clothes were armour, even before he puts on the Iron Man suit. They hid. They hid everything. The opinions of others are both shields stronger than vibranium, and weapons more powerful than anything Stark Industries had ever produced. Tony steadfastly relied on his image to keep Tony Stark, the brand, the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, the icon, separated from Tony Stark, the man, full of hatred and regret and secrets.

Secrets.

Secrets like the scars. The scars that criss-crossed over every inch of his skin that wasn't visible to the outside world. Some pale, faded. Some starting to heal. Others red and raw and fresh, sending a sharp sting of pain through his body with every movement. The pain was his lifeline. He thrived on the pain.

Previously, he had turned to drink, but he got soon bored with that as a solution. Sometimes, but with a steadily decreasing frequency, he did forget his troubles for a short while, but most of the time, the alcohol merely heightened his sense of guilt to the point of driving him to madness. Besides, the resulting hangovers weren't worth the few rare moments of peace.

But taking a knife to his skin, it felt like the punishment he deserved. It felt like he was paying for the pain and hardship that he had caused the rest of the team. That he had caused the rest of the world. It felt like he was finally taking some responsibility for the suffering he brought.

Steve, he'd think, as he pressed the silver blade against the tight skin of his forearm. I'm sorry for everything. The red would blossom brightly against the flesh, making it looked pure white in comparison. It was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. It almost allowed Tony to forgive himself for the lives he ruined.

Almost.

The cuts itched, and Tony cherished it. The sole knowledge of their presence made his skin feel like it was being charged with an electric current, and he wanted nothing more than to pull his sleeves up and dig his fingernails into the rutted battlefield, clawing and scratching and shredding the already sensitive skin.

But he couldn't risk it. It was all to play for, and with just one wrong move, it could all be over.

Bruce. The knife moved from forearm to wrist, glinting temptingly in the dim light of the bedroom. It's my fault. You deserve someone far better than me. The beads of blood, like tiny flickers of fire, danced for him, before falling to the ground.

"Are you okay?"

Tony didn't look up. No. "I'm fine." He said, his voice keeping steady and his eyes maintaining their focus on his work.

Bruce was at his side in an instant, peering at him with those calculating eyes. "No, you're not." He said simply. "You just don't want to talk about it."

Tony didn't say anything in return, and Bruce nodded, as if Tony's silence had cemented his own suspicions. "Just know I'm here, Tony, if you do change your mind."

Bruce knew his boyfriend well enough to know when he wanted to be alone, and so he left the lab, giving Tony a reassuring smile and not another word.

But Bruce was smart and observant. Naturally, it was him, in the end, who found Tony out.

"Tony, stop this, please."

Always attentive, always careful, always gentle Bruce. In theory, he was everything Tony needed. Ideally, Bruce would even out Tony, and Tony would protect Bruce. But Tony couldn't even look at him without thinking of the marks covering his own body that he had made forever in this man's name.

Tony looked up, nonchalantly. "Stop what? Playing Black Sabbath at four in the morning? Buying full fat mayonnaise?"

Bruce had tears stinging his eyes. "Tony, you know what I'm talking about." Of course Tony knew. Tony had been waiting on edge for this confrontation for a while now. "Can you… Would you show me? Please? I want to help."

Tony froze. He didn't think he could do it- could remove his only protection, after all the time he had spent building it up. "No." He said shakily. "Bruce, I- You can't help me."

"Tony…"

"I love you, Bruce. I love you. And this will just push you away, I know it will, and I can't let that happen. I need you."

Bruce stayed silent, and Tony knew Bruce wouldn't force him to do anything that he didn't want to do. But he tugged off the shirt anyway, and let it fall to the floor of his bedroom.

Bruce gasped involuntarily, and Tony sunk to the ground, burying his face in his hands. "Don't look at me, Bruce." He whispered. "I'm disgusting."

Bruce carefully took hold of Tony's wrists, making sure to not touch the red lines there- the red lines that he didn't know were made for him. He slowly moved Tony's hands from his face, to see tear tracks on his cheeks, matching his own. "Tony." He murmured. "You are not disgusting. You're beautiful."

"Don't say that. Please." Tony looked up at him, his eyes wide and supplicating. "Please don't tell anyone, Bruce."

Bruce hesitated. "Tony, I can't… I can't keep something like this a secret. You need some help, Tony. You need someone who can help you better than I can."

Tony's face fell visibly, and he slumped back against the wall. "I don't need anyone Bruce. I don't want some stranger pretending to understand how I'm feeling." He said bitterly. "Can you leave now please?"

"But-"

"Please." Tony repeated, feeling more and more exposed every minute the proof of his weakness was on display. Bruce eventually nodded, and left silently.

The next time Tony picked up his knife, it wasn't for Steve, or Bruce. It wasn't for Pepper, or Rhodey, or even Howard. It was for himself. For his allowing Bruce to uncover his secret. For allowing himself to wallow in self-pity. He wasn't worthy of pity from anyone. Especially not himself.

He steadied the gleaming knife in his hand and took a deep breath as he lowered it to the surface of his body, scraping it across the flat plain of his chest without breaking the skin. He pictured the look on Bruce's face when he first saw the jungle of scars and cuts. He could try to hide it as much as he wanted, but the expression that Tony saw on his boyfriend's face was horror. Horror, and disgust, and just a touch of fascination. Because how could anyone do that to themselves? What would drive that urge? Fascinating.

The knife slipped as the memory made his hand shake, and the resultant gash was deeper than Tony expected. It stung like nothing he had ever experienced before, and it was refreshing. Tony had started to panic. The blood and the pain had already begun to lose their initial satisfaction, but he had no idea where to turn now, for his next outlet.

Tony thought of the stories in the papers, of people who had committed suicide. Many of them, people with histories of self-inflicted physical abuse.

He could never take his own life. He was sure of that.

Although, what was he really sure of anymore?

Who knows what his self-loathing could bring him to?

Before Nick Fury, Tony had never had to face up to the consequences of his father's actions. He had known of the Tesseract, and he had known about Steve Rogers. He knew of the people trying to duplicate the serum, and he knew about the Hulk. He knew about them, but he had never wanted to meet them.

And then the Avengers changed everything.

Suddenly, Tony found himself fighting alongside the men his father had contributed to creating, to fight an enemy in the possession of a weapon his father had spent years trying to locate. He witnessed Steve Rogers morph into the great Captain America, the son his father had always been proud of, the son he had always wanted, as he took command in the final battle.

He saw the thoughtful, gentle Bruce transform into a monster.

He watched as the demi-god Thor attempted to balance the safety of the nine realms with his unconditional love for his brother.

He saw it all, and he blamed it all on himself. It was the legacy Howard Stark left; it was the inheritance Tony was burdened with, forced to carry with him always.

And maybe his way of dealing with it wasn't ideal, but right now, it was all he had.