Work Text:
Tony feels empty, numb, like a time worn portrait, dull paint flaking away and once sharp lines softening into blurred suggestions of a person. His chest aches, his fingers shake, and he hasn’t slept more than an hour or two in days, momentum carrying him through some semblance of productivity to chase away the sickening feeling that he won’t ever be doing enough.
So he works, and works, watches DUM-E put out lab fires Tony makes when he's messing with the repulsors, drinks his coffee black, and works some more. He tinkers with arrows for Clint, easily concealed weapons for Natasha, and ridiculous little improvements to Steve's suit that the man will doubtlessly turn down anyway. He works until he makes a stupid, careless mistake, giving DUM-E another task and taking half the hair off his right forearm. He pivots to something else. Changes the oil in one of the Audis, then another, then the Cobra, until his arms are sticky with grime and the glow of the arc reactor is stained orange from the oil on his shirt.
The Stark Industries mug fills with stale coffee, Bailey's, and Kahlua, all nuked in the microwave until it's hot enough to burn his mouth. Back to the repulsors. Drinks the sweet concoction down and gets to work.
The hours march on like this, until Tony's head is filled with cotton and his arms are dotted with little scrapes and solder drip burns. His back aches and his shoulders twinge painfully. But above all, Tony is really fucking hungry, and at this point, he’s fairly confident in his ability to take on a Captain America interrogation or a tongue lashing from Pepper.
Only once his hands are scrubbed clean and a damp towel is slung around his neck, Tony pads down the hall to the elevator, empty mug in tow. Sure, his head is spinning and he nearly trips twice, but if there’s anything he’s had sufficient practice with, it’s acting normal while he’s drunk. Which he isn’t. He’s tipsy, if anything.
The relief he feels when the lift’s doors shut in front of him is palpable. He rests his head against the polished metal and revels in the cold against his forehead. His forehead, radiating with so much pain, like a fully grown Athena is pounding at the inside of his skull. He lets out a pathetic chuckle. The sound catches in his throat and damn, he’s thirsty as all hell. Maybe this wasn’t his best idea.
There’s a light ding, and then Tony is straightening his back as the doors slide open. Too late to go back now.
“Anthony, you have returned from your voluntary exile!” Thor’s voice booms. Tony winces at the volume.
“You know I can’t stay away, Blondie.”
“Jesus, Tony, what were you doing, fighting a horde of sentient gas pumps? I can smell you from over here,” Clint shouts.
“Do you think your weapons grow on trees?” He retorts, natural as anything. “We don’t all have time for siestas in the vents, Birdbrain.”
“Stark,” calls a quieter voice, low and firm. His eyes flit up to Natasha’s, unreadable as ever, but searching, analyzing. A chill dances down his spine.
He quickly turns around to break eye contact, turning to the sink and filling his mug with lukewarm tap water. The last dredges of his abomination of an Irish coffee shade the water a murky brown. “Do I smell bacon?” He says, raising his voice over the faucet. “That better be bacon, or no one gets their allowance this month.” God, he sounds like shit. They definitely realize he sounds like shit.
“There’s plenty,” Bruce says cheerfully. “Sit down and eat with us.”
Tony shuts off the faucet with a quiet thunk and walks to the table, taking in the spread of good old American breakfast as he wills his head to stop spinning; waits for the ground to go still beneath his feet. Everyone’s eyes flit to him- Natasha, Thor, Bruce, even Clint is giving him an odd look. He takes a long, long drink of water. “You know what, I’m really on a roll upstairs, so how about I just…” Tony makes a popping noise as he snags a lone plate on the table, piled high with golden potatoes, pancakes dripping with syrup, and crispy strips of bacon. “I’ll see you guys at dinner, though, thanks-”
“Tony?” says a gentle voice, just inches behind him. Shit, he really thought he’d managed to avoid Steve.
Tony whirls around too fast, water splashing out of his mug and directly onto Captain America’s pristine white t-shirt. Tony’s pretty sure the only reason he doesn’t fall straight on his ass is because said ass is firmly planted against the edge of the table. “Shit, Cap, fucking warn a guy,” Tony spits, heart hammering against the metal in his chest. His gaze drifts up to Steve’s eyes, wide and curious and maybe a little concerned. Steve takes a small step back.
“Sorry. Are you… alright?”
Tony blinks. “I’m fine, just…” he trails off, looking at the plate, still steaming slightly. The very full plate. Super soldier portion. “Shit, sorry, I- here.” The plate makes an audible clink as he sets it back on the table. He doesn’t feel too bad about stealing Steve’s breakfast so much as he’s very certain he needs to get the hell out of here right now, please and thank you.
“You know what, I think I have some food in the lab, so I’ll just. Go. Now.”
A high screech resonates throughout the room as Thor pushes himself to his feet. Tony’s head pounds at the intrusion. “Why do you not dine with your brothers and sister in arms? To isolate oneself oft ends poorly. In times like this-”
“Like what, Goldilocks?” Tony bites as he extracts himself from the space between Steve and the table. “War? Terrorists? Alien invasions? I don’t have time to sit around for continental breakfast with the A-Team.”
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Clint mutters, earning a smack from Natasha. She meets his eyes, pinning him with her gaze.
“You need to take a break, Stark,” she reasons. “You won’t accomplish anything if you aren’t taking care of yourself first.”
Tony stiffens slightly, face stretching into a taut smile and his hand squeezes so hard against the mug that it begins to shake. “As much as it warms my heart to hear that you all care, you can rest easy knowing that I'm capable of meeting my basic needs. Unless you’d like to feed me yourself, in which case-”
“Tony,” says a voice, a touch more pleading than commanding. Tony turns to meet Steve’s ridiculously perfect blue eyes, boring straight through to his soul. Steve inhales, opening his mouth to deliver what is doubtlessly another mind-numbing lecture, and Tony makes the executive decision to perform a full tactical retreat. He’s walking away before another word can leave Steve’s mouth.
“Look, I appreciate the concern, but when genius strikes you have to ride it to the end. You’ll get it when you see what I’ve been working on. Enjoy the breakfast, though,” he says cheerfully, waving the hand not holding his muddy coffee water, and he feels triumphant for a brief moment before he feels absolutely nothing at all.
Tony is so tired, and he’d do anything to stay in the dark for just a few moments more, to let the heavy blanket of sleep tug him back under.
“Tony…”
Ugh. If only he were so lucky.
“...don’t know…”
“...thought he… just tired…”
“...Tony, hey…”
He tries to cling to the words floating in his head as awareness starts to creep back in. The cold tile bites at his exposed skin- his hands, his arms, his cheek pressed against the floor that seemed far more comfortable just a moment ago. His other cheek has something warm tapping against it, light and incessant. Tony lets out a short, pitiful sound, his stiff neck protesting as he tries to turn his head and cracks his eyes open the barest amount, just enough to see who the hell won’t let him sink back under.
“Tony? You with me?” Ah. It’s Bruce, big brown brown eyes gazing down at him in concern.
“Wha’?” Tony responds intelligently, trying to leverage himself up onto his elbows. A hand finds his back, steadying him. His eyes trail up the arm supporting him until he sees Steve’s face, warped into an expression somewhere between angry parent and kicked puppy.
“Tony, you okay?”
Tony nods slowly, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. “What, uh…”
“You passed out there for a minute,” Steve provides. His mouth spreads into an apologetic smile. “A few minutes. Do you know where you are?”
What a stupid question, Tony thinks, right before oh shit, they think I’m concussed.
“Tower. M’not… didn’t hit my head,” he finishes lamely. It doesn’t hurt any worse than it had before, at least. Before, when he was trying to escape an ambush of pitying gazes and well-intentioned advice. God, he needs to get to the lab. “I’m okay,” he adds, and then he’s pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain blooming in his left palm and the startled noises from his teammates. He very nearly falls over again when the blood rushes back to his head.
“Take it easy, Tony,” Bruce says softly, hands flitting around Tony’s shoulders as he wobbles on his feet.
He gazes dazedly at the blood welling from the jagged cut in his palm. Glass? No, ceramic. The mug with the murky water, shattered in pieces around him. “Uh. I’ll get someone to… clean that up,” Tony mutters dumbly, taking a hesitant step toward the elevator doors.
“Dude, you are not going back to the lab after you nearly brained yourself on the freakin’ floor!” Clint yells, pitched voice reverberating in Tony’s eardrums.
“Didn’t ask for your opinion, Barton,” Tony snaps, finally looking up at his team, all furrowed brows and hard stares. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth; the words feel like they’re spilling from his lips half baked.
And then Steve is in front of Tony, palms up like he’s approaching a wounded animal, shirt still translucent and clinging where Tony’s water landed. “Okay. Let me walk you to the lab, alright? Just me.”
There’s a frustrated groan from behind Steve, but Tony doesn’t have the bandwidth to care, not when Steve’s hand is hovering over Tony’s elbow, waiting for permission. I don’t need your help, he wants to bite out, but he sees the olive branch for what it is. He’d rather deal with one superhero than a whole team of the stubborn little shits, anyway.
He lets out a huff as he rolls his eyes and stalks silently to the elevator, the steady sound of footsteps trailing behind him. Steve can play mother hen all he wants so long as Tony can make it back somewhere safe from the team’s unrelenting poking and prodding.
“Jarvis, take us to the lab, please,” Steve says politely, earning a snort from Tony. It’s a quiet ride up, both men’s gazes glued to the doors in front of them. Tony is wound up like a spring, just waiting for the pin to drop.
But soon enough the doors are opening, and Steve hasn’t said a peep. Just leads him into the lab, taking in the disastrous state of it. Tools and charred scraps of metal that met the business end of a repulsor blast are scattered across the floor, some swimming in what’s left of DUM-E’s adventures in fire containment. His workbench is cluttered with spools of solder, hastily sketched schematics, and, Tony realizes with a jolt, a noticeable number of liquor bottles. One look at Steve, and Tony knows it’s time for damage control.
“Tony, are you drunk?” Steve asks, giving Tony a stern look.
“I think ‘drunk’ is a bit generous,” he starts, but Steve is marching right up into Tony’s personal space, disappointment clouding his gaze.
“You had the whole team worried like that because you couldn’t stay off the bottle?”
“I didn’t pass out because of the alcohol, Steve, don’t be ridiculous,” he tries, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve had much more and been perfectly fine.”
“Goddamnit, Tony, you realize that your behavior puts everyone at risk- the team, the city-”
Tony juts a finger into Steve’s chest. “Don’t you tell me about risk, I’m not drunk when we’re- when we’re saving lives, Steve, it’s a goddamn Friday-”
“Saturday.”
Tony stops short. “Huh?”
“It’s Saturday morning, Tony. And do you seriously think the enemy is going to wait for business hours before they attack?”
Tony doesn’t, as a matter of fact, and he knows that Steve is right, but the chorus of you failed you failed you failed is bouncing around his pounding skull and the only thing Tony can muster is rage.
“Well we can’t all be fucking perfect,” Tony snarls, planting his palms against Steve’s chest and shoving, some logical part of his brain warning that he’s going too far, showing too much. He thinks the small step back that Steve takes might just be to make Tony feel better.
“It’s not about being perfect, Tony, don’t be-” Steve drags a hand down his face. “Just… work with me, alright? You can’t keep doing this to yourself. There’s more than just you at stake-”
“No shit, Cap, you think? I fucked up, I keep fucking up, what do you want from me? This is what I do! This is what I can do!”
For a moment, Steve is stunned, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Satisfaction twists in Tony’s gut, before shame and anger and something desperate overtake him. Fucked up, indeed. Steve’s gaze drops down to his own shirt, almost dry but now stained by a bloody handprint.
Tony backpedals. “I-”
“Sit down,” Steve commands, firm but not unkind. Tony blinks at him.
“Look, Cap-”
“Sit. Down.” Steve doesn’t even wait for a response, just drags Tony over to the ‘32 Roadster and disappears into the small kitchenette.
Dumbfounded, Tony does as he’s told, tucking himself into the red leather. Steve returns with a bottle of water and the well stocked first aid kid that Rhodey had demanded stay in his lab. He cracks the cap of the water loose and shoves it against Tony’s chest until the latter is grabbing it in his good hand.
“Drink that,” Steve says, quieter this time.
So Tony does, sipping slowly as he watches Steve disinfect the cut on Tony’s palm with a sort of detached interest. It’s not until thick layers of gauze are wrapped around the cut that Steve finally breaks the silence.
“Tony, I’m… trying. To understand. You’re hurting, I see that, and I just- I want to help. We all do. But you have to let us,” Steve says, and if Tony didn’t know better he’d almost say he was pleading.
“I don’t want your help,” Tony recites, like he has a thousand times before.
“You can’t keep going like this.”
“Why not, because it jeopardizes the team?”
“Because it jeopardizes you, Tony! You aren’t eating, you’re barely sleeping, this morning was the first time I’d seen you in days! Do you think we’re that dense or that we just don’t care?”
Tony flounders. “It’s not your problem, alright? I can… I can try, I’m trying, but that doesn’t mean you get to swoop in and fix everything.”
Steve gives him a stony stare. “So what, you want me to sit back and watch you kill yourself slowly?”
“I’m fine,” Tony insists, voice blessedly steady.
“Do you really think that?”
“Of course I do, I’ve always been fine! Right up until the moment you showed up and started making everything such a goddamn problem!”
“I didn't push you until you passed out, Tony,” Steve starts, voice low. “You did that all on your own. And because, what, someone had the gall to give a damn about you, you-”
“Well that was your mistake, Rogers. I didn't ask anyone to care,” Tony snaps.
“You didn't…” Steve gapes at Tony, like he’s got the last 5 seconds on replay. “Tony, not everything is a business transaction, you get that?” His eyes flicker to the workbench before grabs something small. A little hairpin with empty gem settings, sharpened to a deadly point. “What is this?”
Tony’s brow furrows. “What does it matter-”
“A weapon? For Natasha, right? Why did you make this?”
“Because it's my job, Cap. Why do you run around in red white and blue spandex?”
“No. Your job is to be Iron Man. You think S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t provide its own agents with weapons?”
Tony snorts. “What, the second rate squirt guns they were using before I stepped in? They didn’t leave a lasting impression on me, no.”
Steve steps towards Tony, still holding that shining hairpin. “So you took over, revamped everyone’s weapons, and then what? You keep building, just because you feel like it?”
“I told you, Cap, this is what I do.”
“Yeah? After Afghanistan, you only made weapons for the suit. What changed? Why are you down here, day in and day out, making weapons and gadgets and god knows what else for the team?”
“You know, it’s really creepy that you remember everything you’ve read in my file.”
“Tony.”
“For the love of- so you don’t all fucking die, Steve, what else?” Tony snaps, heart pounding, his face just inches from Steve’s own. And then, like nothing happened, Steve backs off.
“Well, we didn’t ask you to care about us, Tony.”
Tony’s mind comes to a screeching halt. “I-”
“But you do care, and we care, and no one’s gonna stop anytime soon, so stop avoiding us like the plague and let us help. Let me help.”
There’s a churning feeling in his stomach and something angry pounding behind his eyes, and Tony knows he isn’t nearly drunk enough for this. “You don’t… you don’t want that, Cap,” he says quietly.
“That’s my decision to make, isn’t it?”
It is. Tony wishes it wasn’t. He can’t think of a single more colossal waste of Captain America’s energy than Tony Stark’s fucked up cranium. But… Steve is a stubborn bastard, and Tony about feels five seconds away from another impromptu trip to the floor, and fuck, he’s still so hungry.
“This isn’t…” Tony huffs a frustrated sigh. “We’re not doing this. It’s not a thing. I have my own shit to deal with, and you have yours.” Steve’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth in protest, but Tony keeps going before the words can leave Steve’s mouth. “But I-” Tony grits his teeth. “I could… use a hand. Just for right now.”
Steve beams at him with a smile that reaches up to his bright blue eyes, and suddenly Tony feels very much like he shouldn’t have let Steve’s foot in the door. Too late now, he supposes. Might as well get something out of it.
“Alright, you giant puppy. If you really want to help, bring me some of that bacon. And coffee.”
“Water,” Steve says, nodding. Tony’s face twists in disgust and he’s rewarded with a huff of laughter from Steve. “God forbid you put anything good into your body. I’ll be back in a moment, alright?”
Tony watches Steve retreating back, feeling a little put out at the whole situation. Steve wasn’t going to let this go, and the moment the others found out the modicum of success their Captain was able to achieve, they were going to be all over Tony as well. He could shut down the lab again, isolate himself further. Maybe Steve would get so angry he’d give the whole thing up altogether.
“Tony?” The soft call snaps Tony out of his thoughts, and looks at Steve, paused halfway through the door with something soft on his face. Steve smiles when their eyes meet. “Thank you. Really.”
And then he’s gone, the door swinging closed, and suddenly Tony’s heart is stuttering in his chest and his face is hot and was breathing always this hard?
Tony is so not getting out of this.