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I usually don't do horror, so I hope you enjoy this little ficlet!
---
There is blood leaking out of Iron Man’s eyes. Steve’s hands are shaking, eyes fixed on Iron Man’s, the sleet blue marred by red. His own eyes itch horribly, and he blinks tears heavy with saline.
They thought they had handled the worst of it, taken down the Hydra smugglers and their goods. This is Steve’s fault, for recruiting Iron Man to the cause. At most, it should have been him handling this.
Since when did Hydra deal with the dark arts? Even with the rudimentary knowledge he had about other realms—he left the esoteric, gritty details for the magic users in the group—no one in Hydra should have any idea what the hell they were doing with this. There’s hardly anyone on the Avengers knowledgeable enough to work with this. But that didn’t change that Hydra would do anything, steal any advantage they could take…
But, more importantly, Iron Man was the one who looked at the artifact full on. The hair had risen on the back of Steve’s neck, and he had stood at an angle, glanced at it from out of the corner of his eye. Now, the blood runs from Iron Man’s eyes, leaking out through his mouth slit as well. Steve doubts Iron Man could even see at this point. His grip around Iron Man’s shoulders tighten, and he’s struck by the resistance that jerks back at him, through Iron Man’s body. Through the mesh of Iron Man’s armor, his muscles are tightened, almost locked up. Iron Man is terrified.
These are forces far beyond their purview. The Sorcerer Supreme, or even the Scarlet Witch. Iron Man is gasping now, and the muscles lock up further. One arm thrashes out, and Steve knows enough to hold him down. He can’t let Iron Man injure himself out of fear, like a wild animal. Is that what his friend is, now?
There is blood leaking through the bottom of the helmet. Iron Man has a separate, waterproof armor, but Steve doubts Iron Man could have foreseen the need to guard himself against his own blood.
“Iron Man,” Steve says. “Shellhead, stay calm. I’ve radioed for help, just. Just.” More than the fear, the foreboding of the artifact that fell on the floor, is the helplessness. How could he help his friend?
Iron Man opens his mouth, and the screech pierces Steve’s ears, scratching at the inside of his brain. He’s terrified he broke something of Iron Man, his gloves digging deep into the armor.
He’s choking on his blood. Steve has to—he has to take off the helmet.
He reaches for the helmet catch, and Iron Man fights it. The screech pierces again, and Steve could cry. But beyond his own terror, the terror in Iron Man’s eyes makes his trembling fingers reach for the helmet and its catch.
He squeezes his eyes shut when the helmet comes off. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end.
He opens his eyes.
It’s
—
His mind doesn’t comprehend what he’s seeing.
It’s, a gaping,—hole—place—where Iron Man’s face was—should—be. Even the eyes that had leaked blood were…gone…whatever he sees, whatever his eyes perceive, was—not mean to be seen. This is something that should not, could not, would not be seen, or perceived, or acknowledged.
The screech chills Steve to the bone, strips away all other sense of emotion and sanity, strips him down to his core and, Steve opens his mouth in turn, to scream back—
—————
Steve jerks awake. He hadn’t been able to move because the sheets are tangled around his legs and arms, rolled tight. Steve can see it in his mind, him holding onto the sheets, rolling them tight, before thrashing around, trying to escape…whatever it was.
He reorients himself. The routine is familiar, but instead of reminding himself of the year and location (he’s safe, in the mansion), he runs through the mission from three days prior. They had been on a mission, yes, and recovered a cursed artifact. But Steve wasn’t allowed to see what was under the helmet, even then. They had called for help, and long before Iron Man had begun choking, or leaking blood from his helmet, or letting that unholy scream, help can come in the form of the Sorcerer Supreme and his wards. After making it to the Sanctum Santorum, Iron Man had gone into the restroom to wash off the blood. He’d apologized for reenacting psycho, whatever that meant.
Yes, it had been more of the disturbing missions in recent memory, but Steve ended up back in his own bed at the mansion, while Iron Man…went back to wherever he presumably went at night. You could hardly call it a disaster, like that.
He goes out into the hallway. Maybe a glass of milk would clear his mind, make him feel more down to earth. It’s the dead of night, and the mansion is quiet with sleep.
So, when Steve senses movement in the pitch black at the bottom of the stairs, he freezes.
Iron Man’s helmet—fully armored now, at this time?—swivels around to looks at him. Steve looks back. It feels like a mistake. Instead of his usual relief at their irregularly scheduled meeting of the insomniacs, it reminds Steve of a stand-off. A fleeting thought passes through, that he’s at the top of the stairs, and has the higher ground.
Instead of a greeting, Iron Man turns around, disappeared somewhere behind the staircase.
Steve gives into his urge, and rubs roughly at his eyes. When he’s done, they still itch.
no subject
I usually don't do horror, so I hope you enjoy this little ficlet!
---
There is blood leaking out of Iron Man’s eyes. Steve’s hands are shaking, eyes fixed on Iron Man’s, the sleet blue marred by red. His own eyes itch horribly, and he blinks tears heavy with saline.
They thought they had handled the worst of it, taken down the Hydra smugglers and their goods. This is Steve’s fault, for recruiting Iron Man to the cause. At most, it should have been him handling this.
Since when did Hydra deal with the dark arts? Even with the rudimentary knowledge he had about other realms—he left the esoteric, gritty details for the magic users in the group—no one in Hydra should have any idea what the hell they were doing with this. There’s hardly anyone on the Avengers knowledgeable enough to work with this. But that didn’t change that Hydra would do anything, steal any advantage they could take…
But, more importantly, Iron Man was the one who looked at the artifact full on. The hair had risen on the back of Steve’s neck, and he had stood at an angle, glanced at it from out of the corner of his eye. Now, the blood runs from Iron Man’s eyes, leaking out through his mouth slit as well. Steve doubts Iron Man could even see at this point. His grip around Iron Man’s shoulders tighten, and he’s struck by the resistance that jerks back at him, through Iron Man’s body. Through the mesh of Iron Man’s armor, his muscles are tightened, almost locked up. Iron Man is terrified.
These are forces far beyond their purview. The Sorcerer Supreme, or even the Scarlet Witch. Iron Man is gasping now, and the muscles lock up further. One arm thrashes out, and Steve knows enough to hold him down. He can’t let Iron Man injure himself out of fear, like a wild animal. Is that what his friend is, now?
There is blood leaking through the bottom of the helmet. Iron Man has a separate, waterproof armor, but Steve doubts Iron Man could have foreseen the need to guard himself against his own blood.
“Iron Man,” Steve says. “Shellhead, stay calm. I’ve radioed for help, just. Just.” More than the fear, the foreboding of the artifact that fell on the floor, is the helplessness. How could he help his friend?
Iron Man opens his mouth, and the screech pierces Steve’s ears, scratching at the inside of his brain. He’s terrified he broke something of Iron Man, his gloves digging deep into the armor.
He’s choking on his blood. Steve has to—he has to take off the helmet.
He reaches for the helmet catch, and Iron Man fights it. The screech pierces again, and Steve could cry. But beyond his own terror, the terror in Iron Man’s eyes makes his trembling fingers reach for the helmet and its catch.
He squeezes his eyes shut when the helmet comes off. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end.
He opens his eyes.
It’s
—
His mind doesn’t comprehend what he’s seeing.
It’s, a gaping,—hole—place—where Iron Man’s face was—should—be. Even the eyes that had leaked blood were…gone…whatever he sees, whatever his eyes perceive, was—not mean to be seen. This is something that should not, could not, would not be seen, or perceived, or acknowledged.
The screech chills Steve to the bone, strips away all other sense of emotion and sanity, strips him down to his core and, Steve opens his mouth in turn, to scream back—
—————
Steve jerks awake. He hadn’t been able to move because the sheets are tangled around his legs and arms, rolled tight. Steve can see it in his mind, him holding onto the sheets, rolling them tight, before thrashing around, trying to escape…whatever it was.
He reorients himself. The routine is familiar, but instead of reminding himself of the year and location (he’s safe, in the mansion), he runs through the mission from three days prior. They had been on a mission, yes, and recovered a cursed artifact. But Steve wasn’t allowed to see what was under the helmet, even then. They had called for help, and long before Iron Man had begun choking, or leaking blood from his helmet, or letting that unholy scream, help can come in the form of the Sorcerer Supreme and his wards. After making it to the Sanctum Santorum, Iron Man had gone into the restroom to wash off the blood. He’d apologized for reenacting psycho, whatever that meant.
Yes, it had been more of the disturbing missions in recent memory, but Steve ended up back in his own bed at the mansion, while Iron Man…went back to wherever he presumably went at night. You could hardly call it a disaster, like that.
He goes out into the hallway. Maybe a glass of milk would clear his mind, make him feel more down to earth. It’s the dead of night, and the mansion is quiet with sleep.
So, when Steve senses movement in the pitch black at the bottom of the stairs, he freezes.
Iron Man’s helmet—fully armored now, at this time?—swivels around to looks at him. Steve looks back. It feels like a mistake. Instead of his usual relief at their irregularly scheduled meeting of the insomniacs, it reminds Steve of a stand-off. A fleeting thought passes through, that he’s at the top of the stairs, and has the higher ground.
Instead of a greeting, Iron Man turns around, disappeared somewhere behind the staircase.
Steve gives into his urge, and rubs roughly at his eyes. When he’s done, they still itch.