You hit the punching bag, your knuckles wrapped and your face red. Whether from the workout or from anger, no one could tell.
Punch. The memories replayed in your mind. Snow. Ice. Lasers. Punches. A gun shot, from somewhere else.
“You don’t deserve that. My father made that shield,” Tony’s voice sounded broken even in the memory. The clang as the shield hit the ground reverberated in your head.
You shook your head and refocused on the punching bag, attacking it as Tony walked in.
“What do you want?” You asked, your out of breath voice sounding rude.
“I don’t know,” Tony said, hesitantly, knowing the tone in your voice wasn’t directed at him. He sat down on a bench, rubbing circles in the palm of his hand. You continued to take your anger out on the punching bag, Tony watching you, trying to figure out what to say. “Thank you. For—well, everything just now. I—“ he hesitated, continuing slowly, “I was wrong, to not work out the whole situation long before Siberia. And I’m sorry, because I tore our family apart. But you’re completely right. He should have told us, and he didn’t choose us.”
“He’s a fugitive. He has no right to even show up here, not to mention hems insane for doing it,” you muttered, Tony smirking halfheartedly at your words. “It’s not your fault. You don’t—you shouldn’t apologize for it.” You stopped punching the bag, holding it until it drilled before turning around to face Tony.
He looked like he didn’t really believe your words, but you didn’t push it. “Thanks, y/n.” He stood up from the bench, tossing you a water bottle. “He left, by the way. In case you were in here to avoid him.”
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