If he's being honest - and he's usually not - it all started with a hangover. But, if he's calculating it right, at least 82% of his problems are related directly to alcohol and none of those had ended in murder. He'd have to ask JARVIS to crunch the numbers for a more accurate standing, but for ballparking it he can't be far off.
He's also going to ask JARVIS how the hell he gets all the bad luck in the world thrown at his feet, like a cat leaving its kill on the welcome mat. Except he's the bird that can't flap away quite fast enough and winds up with a broken neck for its trouble. That probably means that the universe is the cat in this metaphor. Fuck cats, he's never much cared for them anyway.
He spits out a mouthful of dust and dirt, lifting his head just a fraction to take in the scene falling to shit around him while he's lying on the floor, arms framing his head like they'd actually stop a bullet and collecting all the dust bunnies in the parking garage on his custom-tailored Armani suit.
A gunshot sounds, too loud in the open space and and he flinches away on instinct. There's a teeny ting of metal on metal and then a car horn starts blaring. It mixes with the bleating of his own car's alarm, the shouts, and the scuffle of fighting to create an orchestra from hell.
He clamps his hands firmly over his ears to muffle the dissonance and it's a long few minutes before he sees Happy ambling towards him. He's moving faster than Tony's ever seen him and he's panting by the time he reaches Tony, hooking his hands under Tony's armpits and dragging him to his feet.
"Are you hurt, boss?" Happy asks between breaths. And all Tony can manage is a small shake of his head as he stands, partly on his own but mostly held upright by firm hands that are shaking a lot less than Tony's legs.
There's a small cut high on Happy's right cheek and his forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, but other than that he appears unharmed. An immense wave of relief washes over him. He's alright. More importantly, Happy's alright.
"He ran off. I should've chased him down but I didn't want to just leave you here, not knowing if..." you'd been shot or blown to hell, the silence implies, but instead he cuts himself off with, "Can you walk?" Tony opens his mouth to reply and promptly clicks it shut when no sound comes out. He settles for a nod. Happy studies him over and Tony drops his gaze in case the fear still clutching at his heart with icy fingers is visible in his eyes. The grip Happy has on him loosens cautiously, like he isn't sure if Tony can support his own weight, but he doesn't comment further.
Tony allows himself to be ushered towards the elevator that will take them back up to the conference he is most definitely late for. He totters forward on stilted legs, every step jerking, a tin man that's joints are rusted through.
Happy presses a button and the elevator doors glide shut. Tony keeps his eyes trained on the colored circles above the door, blinking on and off as they ride past each floor. He ignores the side-eyed scrutiny of the other man, smoothing his suit and gripping the hem in a vain attempt to stop his hands from shaking.
"We're on the wrong floor," Tony says dumbly when the elevator dings and the doors open to reveal a long hallway with rows of doors along both sides.
"You're not going back to the conference, not after that. We're going to Miss. Potts's room to wait for the police. I've already called, they should be here," he pauses to check the time on his watch, "soon actually."
"Pepper is going to kill me for screwing this up," Tony protests, taking a step back, further into the elevator. Only to have Happy propel him forward with a hand pressing into the flat of his back.
"Not this time she won't," Happy assures him with a pitying look. Tony stands his ground for all of two seconds before he capitulates, letting Happy steer him down the hall to a door almost all the way at the end. He waits while Happy fishes a key card out of his pocket and waves it in front of the door. There's a beep and the light on the handle flashes green to admit them entry. Happy reaches around him to open the door when Tony doesn't move to do it himself and shepherds him inside.
"Bathroom. I'm just gonna...go. Do that. Bathroom. Be...be right back," Tony flaps a flimsy hand in the direction of the only other doorway inside the room and Happy only nods, already turning back to lock the door.
Tony walks with deliberate steps, keeping one hand on the wall as he does to keep himself upright. He gropes around for the light switch, flicking it up and shutting the door as the bathroom is cast in a yellowed glow.
He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, eyes closing as he pulls in shaky breath after shaky breath. He stays like that, hunched over the sink, clutching at it white-knuckled, until the staccato of his heartbeat slows to a lazy jog.
He runs a hand down his face before taking a look at himself in the mirror and immediately wishing he hadn't. He looks wild, the lesser known and much nicer dressed cousin of Tarzan dragged from the jungle and dropped on society's doorstep like a bad joke. His hair is a bird's nest of tangles, sticking out in every direction and he's got a hunted, frantic look in his eyes. The suit he's wearing is unfathomably wrinkled and everything about him is covered in a fine layer of dust. Some if it's caked into clumps where it's mixed with his sweat. He's pretty sure that if he ran into himself on the street he wouldn't recognize the man standing in front of him as Tony Stark.
Tony twists the tap on full blast and splashes water on his face, scrubbing at it with his hands until most of the grime is gone. He contemplates running his head under too but he pauses, water cupped in his hands, and decides it's a lost cause. Splaying his fingers, he releases the water and watches some of the stray droplets settle on his shirt and jacket with a dull sort of acceptance.
There's a washcloth hanging on a rod above the toilet, the ends carefully folded and tucked to a tight triangular point. He tugs it free and flicks it, ruining someone's hard work, before he dries his face and hands. Tony leaves the soiled rag on the counter and wanders from the bathroom to find Happy, avidly avoiding his reflection on the way out.
His chauffeur is standing by the door, posture rigid like he's expecting another attack any second. He tips his head toward Tony who waves two fingers in a weary salute.
There's an ugly chair calling his name in the far corner and he's tempted to leave his jacket on when he sits. The dirt certainly couldn't make the vomit-green plaid pattern any worse. But there's a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like a certain redhead he knows telling him that just because he can doesn't mean he should.
And thinking of Pepper creates a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach since trying to get himself killed and missing his speech has definitely landed him a spot at the top of her shit list. So he peels the ruined jacket off - because there's no way it's coming back to life without a mad scientist and a perfectly timed lightning storm - and lets it drop to the floor.
There's a series of sharp raps on the door and Tony doesn't startle at the noise. He just...chooses that moment to jump a little bit, that's all. Happy leans over so he can fit an eye to the peephole but otherwise doesn't respond.
"Open up. We know you're in there. You're the one who made the call," the door between them does nothing to muffle the exasperation in the guy's voice.
"You got a badge?"
"Open the goddamn door."
Happy's hand finds its way into his jacket, hovering there. Where he keeps his gun, Tony thinks, feeling his back stiffen.
"Not until I see some ID." There's a pause but when it's clear that Happy isn't going to yield he hears an even quieter "oh for fuck's sake!" And Tony can't see the guy, obviously, but he likes to think that the man is throwing both his hands up in theater worthy dramatics before digging in his pocket for some identification.
There's a smack of something hitting the door. Happy, still huddled against it, hums his approval after a couple beats of scrutinizing the thing through the peephole and then steps back to undo the locks. He pulls the door open and makes room for whoever is on the other side. Tony doesn't miss that his hand stays close enough to the gun for easy access.
Tony expects a cop, maybe two, dressed in that classic navy blue that's fueled the fantasies for so many stripper grams. What he gets is a man in an eyepatch with a severe case of resting bitch face and an honest-to-god cloak that hangs to his ankles.
Huh.
He can't stop himself from looking over to catch Happy's eye, earning him a confused one shoulder shrug and twist of the lips, before speaking. "You're not the police. He's not the police," Tony says, jabbing a finger at Eyepatch and addressing Happy. He gets an arched eyebrow from the newcomer in response.
"I dialed 9-1-1, boss," Happy apologizes, making it sound more like a question. His brows are furrowed, which is, well. Not reassuring. At all.
"We intercepted it. You've gotten in way over your head. We're here to help."
"Um." Tony blinks, unsure where to start.
"You're making something and someone wants it. Bad. I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?"
Under Eyepatch's scrutiny Tony feels like a beetle on a pinning block, painstakingly needled in place. It makes his skin itch and takes conscious effort to stop from wringing his hands together. "I'm a businessman. I make a living selling things people want. Comes with the territory," he shrugs, trying to keep his tone even and bored.
"Didn't think so," Eyepatch sighs, sounding the part of someone who hoped for better, but gets exactly what he expected all along. The disappointment is something he's familiar with. Well, join the club. If he had a nickel for everyone he's let down, he'd be rich. Well, richer.
"Let me just save you the trouble of lying through your teeth, Stark." And ouch, that stings a bit, even if it is exactly what he had planned on doing, should it come to that. "We know you're working on something big. Something they seem to think they can use to carry out whatever-the-fuck plans they've been dumb enough to come up with. We don't want them to get it. So, we're going to stop them. And let's face it, it'll be easier without you underfoot the whole way."
Tony readies himself, a denial on the tip of his tongue. And then, for some reason that he can't quite put his finger on - other than the fact that it's been a long day and he's tired and the guy obviously knows something, but not all of it, or he'd be making a bigger show of it - he swallows the well-practiced lines and rubs a hand over his face instead. He leaves it resting at his chin, too tired to even finish the motion.
"Let's say I do have a pet project and someone does want it. Hypothetically." He holds a hand up when it looks like Eyepatch is about to interject, cutting him off. "I don't want whoever 'them' is to have it either. Which means at least until this thing is over, we're on the same side. I can work with that. So, what? We both start digging, find out who did the thing, take care of the mess, and get on with our lives?"
"Not quite," Eyepatch says simply. And Tony knows a red flag when he sees one. Hell, he's the one causing them more often than not, he should know.
He narrows his eyes, suspicious. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, Stark, that you're going to stay out of it. Ah, ah, my turn to talk. We're going to set you up with a bodyguard, take you to a safe house. You'll wait there, like the impatient man you are until we clean up the mess. And then you can go back to being the public dumbass the tabloids all know and love."
Tony waits for the punchline, because this has to be a joke. There's no other way around it. But the guy is standing there, tight-lipped, and Tony's had enough.
"No, you no what? No deal. Tell the banker to keep the briefcase, Mandel. I'm going home, drinking my weight in bourbon, and sleeping off the booze if it takes a week. I'll figure it out on my own. Have my people call your people. Or not." At some point in his tirade he's found his way to his feet, leveling a finger at the asshole who shows up in a goddamn cloak and has the audacity to try and banish him from his own life.
"It's already been settled. Miss Potts agrees. She wants you safe and she thinks this'll be the best option."
"You don't get to talk to Pepper. She's mine," Tony interrupts with a huff. Using Pepper against him isn't fair. He won't admit it, but there's a smug smirk on Eyepatch's face that tells him the guy already knows and will gladly do it again. There's a sick twist in his gut, but he clenches his jaw against it and stands his ground.
"We've got a place no one's going to find you. Your driver can drop you off. Your protection will already be there waiting. With any luck we'll have this wrapped up and tied off with a bow before you get bored enough to do something stupid," he continues, like Tony never spoke.
"No. No way, not happening. Not a chance. I'm not getting tucked away in a tower somewhere to sit around with my thumb up my ass waiting for you guys to find and take out some bad guys that obviously spend too much time watching Sunday morning cartoons as a primary source for their evil plans. Come on, Hap, we're leaving."
Happy acknowledges the order with a shallow nod, suddenly all business as he steps forward.
Tony squares his shoulders, straightens his spine, and steps around Eyepatch. Having Happy at his back gives him a sense of comfort and he feels the familiar mask of his public persona slide into place. "Thanks for playing, Patches. Better luck next time," he grins, a practiced flash of teeth. Eyepatch doesn't speak again until Tony crosses the threshold into the hallway.
"We know who it was."
Tony freezes, stilling so fast that Happy almost stumbles into him, only keeping himself from barreling into Tony with an almost comical sidestep and a small flail of his arms.
"What?"
"You heard me." There's a smugness to his voice that sets Tony's nerves on edge. He wheels around to see the matching smirk on his face - he's really starting to hate that expression - and arms folded across his chest. Tony really, really doesn't like this guy. It's been less than five minutes. That's got to be some kind of record.
"Who is it then?" Tony asks, aiming for casual and hitting a few octaves too high.
"Justin Hammer."
And of course it is. Tony really should have guessed that one. Only Hammer would be stupid enough to come up with a murder plot that involved shooting him and blowing him to a million bits in one go.
If there's one person who would play dirty to get his way, it's that asshat. No, that's not quite right. Hammer actually prefers the scumbag method whenever possible. He's not happy unless he's pissed off at least twelve people before breakfast. And Tony doesn't exactly regret being an asshole to the guy, because he deserves it and definitely started it, but it would explain why he put a bomb in Tony's car and then tried to seal the deal with a bullet in his head.
His shoulders slump.
"Well, fuck."