Written for the avengerkink prompt: With the absence of half the team in the aftermath of the accords disaster and all the hard feelings and pain, Tony has developed an eating disorder. He's been binging as a way to fill the hollowness. When Steve meets up with him, they talk out their issues and come to a point where Cap's team move back in. There's still some tension in the air and Tony continues to binge. When Steve and the team find out they do their best to try and help Tony out of this, but it won't be easy in the least.
The first time, it just sort of happened.
He'd decided to stay at the Tower after visiting Rhodey at Columbia for the first time and ordered a pizza for dinner because it was quicker than ordering groceries. He ordered a large since cold pizza would be a good breakfast.
One hot, cheesy slice after another slid greasily down his throat and he didn't notice what he was doing until he reached for another and the box was empty. He'd finished the whole damn thing. Only then did he feel the discomfort radiating from his overfull stomach. He took a shaky breath and burped on the exhale, some of the pressure easing slightly.
What the hell had gotten into him?
He quickly closed the box, folded it in half as he went over to the trash can, then shoved it as far into the trash as it would go. An overwhelming feeling of shame for what he'd just done drove him from the kitchen and over to the bar for a stiff drink or three.
He wasn't sure what was worse: the sick churning in his gut or the realization that he would've kept eating if there had been more.
.
The second time, he recognized what was going to happen as soon as his takeout order arrived. In his hunger he couldn't decide what to order, so he'd gotten both of the options he'd dithered over.
The smells were heavenly and he remembered the pizza incident six days before, so he went as far as getting a plate and scooping a reasonable amount of food onto it. He left the containers on the counter and sat at the table, thinking surely he would be fine if overeating required getting up again.
He ate it all, standing at the counter shoveling rice into his mouth like someone starving even though he'd already eaten an amount that would, under normal circumstances, be more than enough. He was disgusted with himself even as he scraped the last morsels from the white containers.
The evidence went through the trash compactor twice and into an innocuous plastic bag before being relegated to the trash can.
He swore to himself that it would never happen again.
.
The third time happened four days later.
It had been a bad day all around. The government was pestering him to divulge the location of the missing Avengers even though he didn't fucking know (he suspected, but didn't want to give Ross the pleasure of even that much information). Pepper was on his case about not being more involved with the company now that the avenging thing wasn't happening. Rhodey had a setback, lots of pain in his low back that the doctors were checking out but meant that his physical therapy had been put on hold.
So he'd driven out to some suburb, stopped at one of those sprawling grocery stores, and picked up whatever struck his fancy. Thank goodness for the self-checkout machines; he didn't even have to suffer the scrutiny of some young thing as his assortment of carby, sugary selections were rung up.
An entire bag of potato chips disappeared in the time it took to drive back to the Tower. Once he was safely on the Avengers-only floors, he took off his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and ate.
For a time, it was almost peaceful, just him and the pile of food that he hoped might satisfy the hollow place that demanded to be filled.
He didn't stop until everything, all thirty bucks of the cheap, processed, terrible-for-him food, was gone and he felt sicker than he could ever remember being. All of the sugar made him feel woozy and his attempt to move in order to start clearing away the evidence had him puking all over the crinkled wrappers.
It took him a while to recover enough to clean up his mess, his mouth sour with bile and self-loathing.
.
He was able to eat normally, function normally, put up the appearance for anyone watching that he was just fine, thank you very much, for six days after that. Then suddenly breakfast became an entire box of Pop-Tarts and the whole bottle of orange juice in addition to a couple of eggs and some sausage and he might have eaten more except that he had promised Rhodey he'd be there for a meeting with the doctors.
Even though he couldn't possibly be hungry for hours, he slipped several energy bars into each of his jacket pockets before he left. They were gone before he got to the hospital. The shame at his lack of control dogged him the rest of the day and for several days after.
He settled into something of a routine: following every infraction, he would resume his normal eating habits with careful attention. He would do well for several days and feel a little better about himself despite the gnawing hunger that lurked in the corners of his mind. Then the hunger would become too great and something beyond his control would take over and disgusting amounts of food would pass between his lips and he would hate himself all over again.
.
When Rhodey was allowed to return to the compound, he convinced Tony to come with him. Tony agreed, hoping a change of scenery and some company would shake him out of this disturbing new food habit. The habit became even more disturbing when he realized he'd gained a full ten pounds in the eight weeks Rhodey had been recovering in the city.
Then the letter from Steve arrived and it felt like a gaping chasm had opened beneath him, within him, reminding him of all that he had lost. He waited until Rhodey had gone to bed and Vision left to patrol the perimeter before raiding the cupboards and taking an armful of junk to the office.
He locked himself in and ate like he hadn't since his little shopping trip, except this time he didn't throw up at the end. He couldn't move for a while afterward, his stomach visibly bloated and painfully compressed by his waistband. He tried adjusting his pants and finally had to unbutton them for some physical relief while his mind berated him for being a wretched slob.
He still felt sick with embarrassment and shame the following morning and claimed illness in order to not have to face anyone else until at least lunch time. At lunch he ate moderately and was satisfied. Perhaps there was still a chance that all would be well.
.
He knew Rhodey was keeping a close eye on him after the morning he didn't feel well, and for a while that helped him keep the food itch in check.
Well, for eight days, anyway. After that he figured out ways to slip things into his pockets or up his sleeves in order to stash them in the office or his workshop or his bedroom for later.
His next binge wasn't nearly as dramatic, just several bags of gummy candy less than an hour after a filling dinner. He wasn't hungry and yet he was and he couldn't stop popping the stupid things into his mouth one after another.
He was disgusting.
He threw himself into working on the Accords and negotiating a way for Steve and company to return to the echoing expanse that had been their home and now merely housed a paralyzed veteran, a despondent android, and a waste of space. For a time it seemed like he might be able to return to something more like a normal relationship with food, but each time he got his hopes up they were dashed in a pile of terrible food and a gut filled to bursting.
He was certain that Rhodey had noticed what was going on, had at least noticed that he'd gained weight, but his friend said nothing. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
.
Weeks passed and he continued to fight the compulsion to stuff himself stupid. With a great deal of willpower he managed to keep the incidents down to once a week-once every two weeks if he was doing really well, which he had achieved maybe twice-and the weight gain had peaked at eighteen pounds when the rest of the Avengers returned to the compound.
On the one hand, having so many people around made it much harder to sneak food the way he had been. On the other hand, the strain of coexisting with people who were open about not trusting him made the urge to eat almost unbearable. By raiding his stashes and staging carefully planned late night forays into the kitchen, he was able to scratch the food itch when it arose.
He gained five more pounds that first month. He avoided mirrors except to shave and tried not to look at himself in the shower. He could still wear his clothes, mostly, but there were certain things he had to push to the back of his closet because they clung a little too much to his more rounded frame and he couldn't risk drawing any more attention to it.
He knew better than to think this motley crew of attentive fighters hadn't noticed he'd put on a few pounds. He was just surprised no one had rubbed his face in it yet.
.
And then came the night he was eating the stash he'd kept in the office and Steve walked in. There was absolutely nothing he could do to try to hide or disguise what he was doing, so he leaned back in the chair, put his feet up on the desk, and kept chewing.
An impressive parade of expressions crossed Steve's face as he took in the open drawer and its remaining contents, Tony and his position, and the scattering of empty food wrappers on the surface of the desk. Then he closed the door, leaned back against it, crossed his arms, and said, "Well, this explains a few things."
"I'm sure it does," he said, trying to ignore the embarrassment heating up his face and constricting his throat. He'd just finish the last two donuts and call it a night.
"Why are you doing this?"
"I can't stop," he said hoarsely, acutely aware of the last mouthful of donut as he spoke around it. He longed to melt into the floor from shame.
"It's your choice to do this," Steve insisted.
"If I could choose to stop this, I wouldn't be here right now." And his hand wouldn't be reaching for that candy bar, but there it went. The sickly sweet smell of chocolate and nougat filled the air as the wrapper was opened.
Steve took the candy bar from his hand and threw it forcefully into the garbage. "You have more control than you claim. Why are you sabotaging yourself like this?"
He scrambled to his feet, painfully conscious of the way his body moved and jiggled where it hadn't before and he hated every inch of it. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Rogers," he hissed. "Now either leave or let me leave."
Steve stepped aside and held open the door. "Be my guest."
He hurried out, his head down and his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. In the safety of his locked bedroom he slid to the floor and wished for everything to end. He couldn't think of a more humiliating way for someone to find out about his problem, and for it to be Steve of all people . . .
He seriously considered leaving, either temporarily or permanently, and he didn't just mean the compound.
He'd never considered himself suicidal before, but there on the floor in a body he despised with sugar still clinging to his lips, death seemed like an eminently rational solution. With Pepper out of the picture, the team in shambles, and his mind and body rebelling against him, what was there to live for?
He was weighing his options when there was a light tapping on the door.
Steve said softly, "Tony?"
He held his breath and didn't dare to move.
"Tony, Friday told me you're here."
He scowled. "Fuck off."
Steve sighed. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
He flushed, feeling his eyes begin to sting and a lump form in his throat. Goddamn it, he was NOT going to cry. "I don't know," he said thickly.
"May I ask you a few questions about what's going on?"
"Leave me alone."
"May I ask Friday instead?"
A hot tear streaked down his cheek and he scrubbed it away impatiently. He didn't answer the question.
"Tony, does anyone else know?"
"No, and you'd better not tell them."
"Not even Rhodes?"
He shuddered as another tear followed the first. "You're not telling anyone."
"I won't tell anyone what's going on if you allow me to talk to Friday about this."
"Fine," he said sullenly.
"Thank you. Sleep well, Tony," Steve said softly.
He waited until he heard Steve's footsteps recede, then crawled over to the bed and pulled out the secret shoebox of sweets. He'd already made a fool of himself this evening so he might as well finish the job.