AN: Another nagging fic that just wouldn't go away. Sorry I'm not sorry. 1,000 words.
-O-O-O-
He hit the ground hard, sliding his feet under himself, trying to scoot as close to the workbench as he could, trying to hide. The bottles at his feet scattered, rolling dully over the concrete floor. He heard himself sniffle and tensed.
Don't you dare start that. Crying is for sissies. His father's voice filled his ears.
When had this happened?
When had the empire of weaponology been placed in the hands of him, a rowdy, eccentric womanizer who lived for the next thrill? Who only found himself in the twist of a wrench, or more recently at the bottom of the bottle?
He wasn't ever poised to handle this. Sure, he was smart. But everything he touched turned sour—at least when it came to actual human relationships. That's why he loved computers.
He could create all day. Render and draft, research and mold. He could manage business fairly well, if he had someone over his shoulder to make sure he had his accounting in check. The industrial age began and would die with the Stark empire. He had a pair of giant shoes to fill, and he was unequipped to do so. At least he felt so.
And then there were friends. Did he even have those anymore? Rhodey, he supposed. But even Rhodey sometimes felt distant and was upset with him over his tardiness or immaturity. The man had been his right hand man through the good old days. But once he'd left for Iraq, the man came back hardened and staunch, treating his position at SI with the most stringent of attitudes. No more parties. No more flights overseas with sassy flight attendants and expensive champagne—that was unless Tony managed to goad him into it.
Happy sometimes seemed like a friend. He saw the man often enough. But there was always a layer of business there. Always security. They'd joke and tease, but that was the extent. He hadn't even known that Happy had been through a divorce and another marriage in the time he'd been working here. Was he that blind?
He wiped his sleeve over his face, trying to stop the flow of tears. But of course, they came quicker and larger, pooling on the knees of his jeans.
He'd go ahead and admit it.
He was alone.
And he hated it. He hated himself.
He drug the bottle to his lips again, taking as a large a swig as he could, the liquid searing his throat.
He chocked a moment and swallowed.
Cool metal pressed against his cheek, and he was bewildered a moment before he looked up at his robot. Dum-E's polished claw tapped his shoulder, almost comfortingly and he—yes, a he—emitted an electronic whine.
Tony would've laughed at the situation if he wasn't feeling so bitter. Instead he sobbed.
He lowered his head to his knees and sobbed. Weak and broken and dry.
Dum-E's mechanical claw moved from his shoulder to rest on top of his head, pushing gently at the thick black hair. He reached up a hand, tugging Dum-E closer, tilting into the touch of the cool, hard gunmetal.
He cursed under his breath, swirling the empty bottle and tossing it away. And in that moment, as he ventured further away from himself, further into the depths of humanity unexplored, he had a thought.
What would happen if he left?
Not California. Not the country. But left. Down here, in his workshop, the possibilities were endless and it would be all too easy to cover up…
Would the company flounder? Certainly one woman had it all under control. She'd always had it, more than he could even try to grab the reins.
Would anyone care? Would anyone cry? Would anyone…?
He jumped when a hand cupped his chin. A real hand. A soft, warm, gentle hand. He twisted away. Dum-E whirred and lifted his claw.
Her voice was quiet, but she was close. Close enough to envelope him in her arms, pressing his head to her chest. He hung limply, like a ragdoll. For several seconds, he was betrayed, desiring with every fiber of his being to push her away, to scream at her and tell her to leave him the hell alone. But as soon as he took in the scent of her hair, he melded to her, holding tight.
She said something and he chose not to register her words. Then she was trying to pull him up off the floor, gripping his hand and reaching for the empty bottles nearby.
She was still in her work attire, he noticed. Even her SI badge was still clipped at the hem of her blazer.
He rose to his knees, trying to follow her. His elbows hit the cool metal end of the workbench, his body sagging below. His head ached just between his eyebrows, his nose still running like a child's.
Her hands rubbed at his back, her voice still soft behind him. He felt a pressure on the crown of his head, and he silently wished that was her lips.
She managed to tug him up, pulling him along. She tracked him to the bedroom, easing the door shut quietly. Efficient as she was, she managed to get him sitting while she went to the bathroom to prepare a handful of melatonin capsules and a tall glass of water.
He gratefully took the offering from her hand, downing it like he was in the Sahara.
Wordlessly, she coaxed him under the blankets. He curled against the pillows, tucking one against his side to fill the void on the other side of the bed. But now wasn't the time to go there.
"Pepper," he said drowsily.
"Yes Mr. Stark?" she answered, her hand on the light dimmer, standing near the doorway.
"I don't have any…one but you," he murmured, bunching the pillow closer to press his nose into it, but only smelling his own cologne.
"Goodnight, Tony," she said sighing, closing the door behind her.