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Tony sits on the couch of the communal floor, his third glass of whiskey in his hand. It’s eerily quiet, though it has been for a week now. He supposes he’ll have to get used to it at some point.It’s been a week since Steve fled with Bucky. A week since he chose him over Tony. A week since their opinions and views on the accords ripped them apart.He downs the remaining whiskey, and fills his glass up once more. Tips his head against the back of the couch, tries focusing his eyes on the ceiling, as if that’s going to stop the tears forming.This floor was never intended to be this quiet. Hell, it was never intended to be used. Before the others moved in, it was an empty floor. Sometimes he would come onto it to have a few moments of silence, but that was rare. When the others moved in, he put his heart and soul into creating a floor for them all. A communal area. Rooms and functions for everyone. No one was to be excluded.This particular room, the lounge, was the life and soul of the floor. When their schedules allowed, they’d have movie nights together. It’d be filled with the laughter and joy Tony never knew was possible to experience.He put his heart into not only this floor, but into his relationships he’d developed with the people he’d considered family. When they left, they trampled all over it.Getting up, he looks out the large window. The city seems to have everything he’s lacking right now. People, energy, a life force.He can remember all the arguments he and Steve had in their relationship. But none sting as badly as the ones over the accord continue to do.
“We can’t sign the accords, Tony! If we do that we might as well sign our lives away.”
“Don’t you see? It’s for the best. With the way we’re doing things, being so reckless, we’re signing other peoples lives away!”
“But think of the ones we’re saving!” Steve had shouted, fists downwards against the desk. “The world needs us. They need heroes!”
“I don’t need a hero, I need a husband!”
Tony snaps himself out of it, not allowing himself to cry. So far there’s been no bad memories on the communal floor, breaking down here would tarnish that record. Whiskey burning his throat, he leaves the glass on the table but grabs the bottle and stumbles to the elevator.Perhaps if he drinks enough, he can trick himself into believing that this is all a dream and he’ll wake up in Steve’s arms. Any alternative reality, regardless of how it comes about, seems better than the one he’s faced with.