Anthony Edward Stark was a fucking asshole and he knew it. He was the one who made himself that way. He'd never admit it to himself of course, but as long as the world hated him, he could keep hating himself. And the more he acted like the only thing he loved was himself, the more the world hated him, and the more it was okay he hated himself. Nobody could differentiate the self harm scars from scars from work accidents, and supervillains. It was such an easy sweet release, pure punishment and pain and it was all he wanted sometimes. Things got more difficult when the avengers moved in. He couldn't just wander around the tower drinking and cutting his arms. But he could sit in his penthouse, or his workshop, with the doors locked and Jarvis protocolled to keep everyone out, and just cry and cut and drink and go out hours later, pretending everything was fine. Pretending he loved himself, acting like the smug bastard everyone thought he was. And really, he was nothing besides what they thought of him, right? So the cycle of public shame and self hatred and egoistic actions continued even alongside the avengers.
Until Clint noticed one day. Noticed that some scars were too straight. Too thin. Too perfect. That some scars lined up with each other too well in pairs and sets. And he just had to fucking ask. He had to ask Tony. That stupid question he'd been avoiding his whole life.
"Are you okay Tony?"
Nobody was supposed to ask that. No one was supposed to care. They were supposed to think he was a stuck up dickwad who loved himself exclusively. Because Tony couldn't lie about this. It hurt too much to be dishonest. All he could do was answer with the truth.
"No. I'm a million miles from okay. I don't think I've ever been okay Clint, so you probably want to leave me alone now." Tony walked into his lab, closing the door and having Jarvis set up a lock down protocol, leaving a shocked Clint behind him in the hall. Anthony Edward Stark was not okay, and he never had been.