It'll be like he never picked up the bottle of whisky. It'll be like he never tipped back the bottle of rum and felt the liquid gold slid down his throat, burning as it dripped down and warmed his stomach. It'll seem that none of his late-night binges have ever occurred, like they're just some distant dream or a horrible nightmare.

Because, in the morning, Tony Stark will wake up completely sober.

He knows that one night free of any alcoholic beverage won't exactly change a thing. He'll just have to make it through tonight, and, no matter how loudly the bottom of the bottle sings to him, he won't answer its call. He feels like he's a slave to the bottle, and it's a cruel master.

Steve hasn't been back for hours, and his heart is in pain, like it's being stabbed by a thousand tiny shards of glass. It's a close comparison to what's actually happening to him.

It's all because he had to go open his big mouth without thinking. He never thinks before he speaks, and he ends up wounding others in the process. Why can't he, for once in his life, not hurt the people he loves? He can barely remember what he said to Steve, because he made his mind block it out. If he didn't block it out, it would sit in front of his train of thought and make him think of all the things he did wrong.

That's what the alcohol was usually for. It made him numb, turned his thoughts into nothing, and made him relax.

"Why can't you for once in your life think about people other than yourself?"

Shit, he thinks, sucking in a deep breath. Steve's voice bounces around in his head, buzzing like a bee, annoying. Not that Steve's voice was annoying. No, it was far from annoying. It was soothing to Tony, when it either echoed in the crook of his neck or crooned softly when he has breathtakingly real night terrors that grabbed ahold of Tony and shook, shook him to his very core and didn't let him go, until the soft sound of Steve's voice made all of the scary go away, and he was able to sleep.

That's why he barely every slept. The night terrors seemed to get worse and worse.

He needs something to keep him busy, keep his mind off of everything worldly, and just focus on some mind-numbing task to just take him away from reality. He always had upgrades to install on the suit, he has robots to make, he has Jarvis to talk to, but none of them seem appealing. The only thing that even attracts his interest would be going to his room, curling up with a bottle of scotch and a cigarette, and letting everything just drift away. It's his escape, a way of dealing, and he wants nothing more.

Words ring in his head.

Your life isn't that bad, get over yourself.

Alcoholic.

Self-obsessed drunk.

The words burn him, like a cattle prod. He wants to shrink away from the taunts that lie within his own head. He wants to run away from them for a little while, wants to be in a state where nothing taints his mind and he can just float in peace, his only concern being just breathing. Why can't he do that? Why can't he just leave everything behind?

No. He can't leave Steve behind. He can't leave the other Avengers behind either. Loki wasn't gonna keep himself in check on his own time.

He makes a resolve, deep inside of himself, as he sits in a fetal position on the floor of his lab.

I, Tony Stark, will wake up in the morning, sober.

In the morning he expects to still be laying in an awkward position on the hard concrete of his lab, but when he wakes up he's shocked to feel the soft blankets of his bed rubbing against his skin and he shoots up, heart pounding against the arc reactor stamped in his chest. His eyes refocus and he sees where he is, and he's in his room. Sunlight pours through the open windows, making everything turn into a bright white. He shields his eyes and blinks a few times to see he's not alone.

"Good morning, Tony," Steve says from where he's sitting, across the room in one of the chairs, a book resting in his lap. "I figured you'd be camped out in your lab, but I wouldn't have expected you to be sprawled out on the floor."

Tony blinks again. "I fell asleep on the floor?" He stretches and hisses when his muscles ache in serious protest. "Ah, damn."

Steve chuckles, and Tony gives into the urge to glare at him. "That's what you get."

Tony sighs. It's a sad sigh. "So…about last night…"

An eerie silence follows his statement, and Steve closes his book, breathing out as he does. "What about last night?"

"I…I'm sorry if I said anything…rash," Tony says, scratching his neck. "I…I don't know."

"I was surprised that you hadn't gotten drunk after I left," Steve murmurs, and his tone is reproachful. "It's always a think with you, drinking after fights, after sex, after anything."

Tony doesn't want to shrink away from the edge of Steve's tone. He instead counters it. "I've always done it. Ever since I was a teen. It's how Dad did it, and I guess I caught on…"

Steve eyes in him silence, quietly sizing him up from under his lashes. Tony stops and mutters, "It kind of…grew out of hand when Dad passed. With the whole 'taking over the family business' thing and all. I was confused. I didn't know what to do."

"But you didn't drink last night."

Tony's back straightens. "No, I didn't, and I'm proud that I did. I…I'm sick of breaking everyone's heart. So I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't drink. And then…and then I guess that I didn't."

Steve legitimately seems to do a double take. He stands slowly and goes to the side of Tony's bed, taking the other's hands and staring him straight in the eyes.

"So…you're sober then?" Steve asks, blue eyes deep and staring Tony down.

"As I'll ever be," he replies, and Steve leans in for a kiss. It's soft, caring, filled with all of the warmth Tony needs to push on, to leave his problems behind. He can do it. He just needs someone to help him along the way.