Author's Note:

I will apologize for this story. It's very very short, probably not too coherent, and I wrote it in like...an hour. I just have a lot of feelings regarding a certain drunk inventor, especially when it comes to his bots.

Set when Tony is about 17. I don't know a thing about computers or robots or anything, so sorry for inconsistencies. And to all of you who might be waiting for chapters for my ongoing stories, I'm also sorry about that. I promise I will get back to them when I get time!

Disclaimer: Obviously the epic-and-angst of Tony Stark does not belong to me. I just like to mess with him on occasion.

It was late – or early, depending on the way you looked at it – and there was a growing certainty that he'd have a wonderful hangover by the time he did actually get to sleep. Though, by this point, Tony wasn't entirely sure he hadn't been asleep a few times already and just kept working anyway. His neck did have a very impressive crick in it, though the buzzing in his head made it more of a factual knowledge that it was there than an actual pain. There was also one decent-sized cut on his left hand that he'd wrapped up with a rag, pointedly ignoring the oil stains as he did so. It had stopped hurting a while ago unless he actually hit it on something which, given his current state, happened rather often.

He'd like to believe that his father would end up reasonably upset if he were to come into the makeshift lab at this point; there were tools lying everywhere, scrap metal littering the floor, and a good few bottles lying haphazardly on the work table. It was ironic, actually, that the alcohol would probably be the last thing that would be noticed, if the man were sober enough to notice any of it. Legally 17 year olds weren't supposed to be looting their father's impressive store of different imported beers, even if said 17 year old was the protégé son of Howard Stark. Tony was fairly certain he would have a few misdemeanors under his belt by now if he had been anyone else's son, but as it was it seemed to be an impressive feat to do something his father would actually have an opinion on.

Hell, he didn't usually even drink when he was working. By this point the boy couldn't remember exactly what had driven him to it – just that there had been a good deal of shouting and a broken glass and his mother attempting to break up whatever argument had ensued before Tony had taken it upon himself to storm out. He had ended up in the room that had turned into his lab, as was common after bouts like that. It might've been a bad idea, come to think of it, to be working on the final stages of his current project as he made a point of blocking out the rest of the world with the bottles that now lay empty on their sides…but nights like this didn't tend to result in much logical thinking.

Just once… He shook his hair out of his face a little impatiently, his blinking faster than usual in an attempt to keep his eyes focused. Just once you ought to manage not to be a screw-up. The bolt was tightened with what might've been a little more force than absolutely necessary. He leaned back a little, glancing over the machine in front of him. It wasn't that impressive of an aesthetic design…but it wasn't the aesthetics he was concerned about. Tony spun his chair around to face the computer on the workbench, one hand running absently down the wires that connected it to the 'brain' of the machine. He already had voice samples programmed in, simpler commands that could be used to expand the database later, facial recognition, the most memory he'd ever put into one bot…and with a few keystrokes – and a few times having to punch the backspace because why the hell were the letters moving – it was uploading.

Just once… He found himself staring at the screen, vaguely realized he was dozing off when the progress seemed to jump from 4% to 39% between blinks. This project had been in progress on and off for months, but he always worked more when the carbon-based world became too much to deal with. That apparently had happened a lot recently. With the combination of MIT getting snippy about everything and the press getting a little too interested in the romantic life Tony wasn't even sure he had now and his father being displeased with all of it, of course…the smell of oil and arc welding was about as soothing as the alcohol and he practically lived in this room.

Tony swore a little as he found himself nearly falling off his stool, grabbing the workbench to steady himself and wondering when the hell he'd fallen asleep leaning on the tray of metal plates to his left. Yeah, there'd definitely be a hangover in the morning – or afternoon, as was starting to seem more and more likely. After a moment his eyes drifted to the screen and narrowed a little when the progress bar informed him the upload was complete. He managed to get his head to turn enough to peer at the bot, noting that the main power light was now on and it appeared to be charging correctly.

"So you're awake, huh?" His voice was hoarse and the boy swallowed, fighting to keep his eyes open. He could see the camera on the end of the bot's arm focus a little, hear the whirring as internal gears turned…but there didn't seem to be any other real reaction. It took a lot more effort than usual to stick out one foot and prod the metal framework a little. "You know my voice. Should at least look over here…" More whirring, a soft click, and then nothing. Tony frowned, brow furrowing, and he managed to speak a little louder, which hurt his head. "Hey dummy, at least move your damn camera." The lights continued to blink, but the bot remained motionless and Tony suddenly realized he had slammed his hand on the workbench when he was reminded that it happened to be his injured hand.

Just this once… It was taking too much damn effort to keep himself upright anymore. He let himself lay his head on the wooden surface, oblivious to the metal shavings and grease still covering it. His hand was cradled up to his chest as it throbbed persistently and the boy found a sound escape him that might've been a laugh or the beginnings of a sob or anything in-between. Just this once, be nice to be a little less of a screw-up.

It ended up being the mixture of a throbbing headache and a sore back that woke him up around noon, and it took at least fifteen minutes longer to actually convince his eyes to open without shooting nails into his brain.
Alright…" Talking to himself didn't always work as motivation, but it was sort of nice to know that his voice was still slightly functional. Sort of. "Get your lazy ass up. Get some water." Apparently the motivation wasn't working today. "C'mon Tony. Dying on a workbench would be a boring obituary." The papers would love it, of course. Might even make second page, depending on the rest of the news that day. Famous Inventor's Son Killed by a Hangover. Had an interesting ring to it.

His eyes had closed again at some point and Tony didn't feel much urge to get them open again. It was only an odd clicking that got him curious enough to lift his head slightly from his arms, squinting in the bright lights. The first thing he noticed was that he was going to have a hell of a lot of cleanup to do eventually. The second thing was that his bot wasn't where he had left it. Brown eyes narrowed as his sluggish mind tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for this phenomenon. After a few moments the clicking registered again and he realized it was coming from his left. Muscles protested the effort of turning and once his eyes focused, his mind protested the effort of putting together what he was seeing.

A camera lens winked a little at him and a robotic arm was holding out an empty beer bottle almost hopefully. "The hell…?" It was his bot. He could vaguely recall it not working before falling asleep, but here it was now attempting to hand him…a bottle. You said to get water. Tony sat up a little more, ignoring the way his back popped as he did, and reached out to take the bottle. There was a series of almost satisfied clicks from the machine and it rolled backwards a little, arm lowering but still looking somehow expectant.

"Voice commands are online?" A few clicks. He assumed that meant yes. Tony found himself on the edge of his stool, staring between the bot and the beer bottle in his hand. "This isn't water." It was the only thing he could really think to say. After a moment he looked up to look straight into the camera and held the bottle up. "This is not water," he repeated, a little stronger this time, and hell if the thing didn't look disappointed. Its arm drooped slightly and there was a quiet whine like some puppy that had been reprimanded.

It worked. His headache seemed like a very minute problem at this point. Dammit, it had worked. Tony restrained a rather giddy laugh, glancing at the computer and pulling up the systems analysis to skim over. It had worked. The bot was online, apparently understood his unintentional command – even if the response wasn't exactly accurate – and understood the correction. It understood his voice. He was talking to his bot.

"Put this," the bottle was held back out, and the arm rose to grasp it quickly, "into a trash can." There were a few clicks and the machine rolled across the room, camera scanning every square inch it could see, analyzing carefully, making a decision…and dropping the bottle into a box of wrenches before rolling back. Tony found himself actually smiling – when was the last time he had smiled that hadn't been for a camera? – and slipped off his stool to kneel beside the bot, double-checking the connections and covers. It was an honest mistake.

"Good boy," he murmured, hangover all but forgotten for the moment in favor of running his hands over the metal and hearing the happy clicks as it seemed to recognize the praise. "Good boy, you little dummy."

Just this once…