Tony nursed a glass of cheap whiskey in his left hand and the bottle in his right. He looked into the bottle; there wasn't much left, but he didn't feel like finishing it. He downed it anyway. Booze and women took the edge off the wounds that refused to heal. Howard. Ten Rings. Steve's scathing comments. Though his nuke stunt earned him some form of respect from him, it would carry no lasting value. Steve was just being nice, that poor boy. He knew he was going to die, heading into that ice. He knew what it was like. He knew that that final sacrifice was nothing but just that: a simple sacrifice. Tony set the bottle on the counter, next to the other two. Sat on one of the high bar stools. Looked down at his hands. His vision was blurring. His balance was skewed. He needed to get to bed before he passed out. Tony cringed as he stumbled down the hall. Dammit, his peripheral was gone already. He tripped over nothing and landed hard on his forearm. Something cracked, but he felt nothing. Just self pity.
"Tony, why are you still-Oh God, call for help! Get Bruce up here," was the last thing that he heard before slipping under entirely.
Bright sunlight shot through the windows. Steve and Clint were in snoring in uncomfortable seats by the door. Tony grudgingly opened his eyes, squinting to block out the light. Soft linen sheets covered him. His linen sheets. In some unused room of the Stark Tower. The events of last night drifted back slowly, bit by bit. He got into another fight with Steve, this time about groceries. He stormed off, slamming the door behind him. Tony slumped at the dining table, mindlessly gnawing on beef jerky. The other Avengers watched him with badly disguised concern. Tony Stark was never silent. Tony Stark was never the one to back off from a fight. And yet he did. Because Steve knew exactly where to drive it home. Right behind his neglected-child gland, a little to the right of his drinking problem, nicking his Afghanistan incident in the process. Not to mention cleanly passing through his ego. Ouch. Let's just say that beef jerky doesn't keep the demons at bay for long.
Clint detected Tony's awakening and roused himself. He yawned and poked Steve in the process who instantly jerked awake.
"Good morning sunshine," Steve flatly remarked. How did that much sarcasm get into his system?
"Close the blinds." Tony's voice was hoarse and unsteady. "What, no snappy remark?" Tony stayed silent, playing keepaway with Steve's eyes. It was hard to just "talk" to Steve. He was amazingly intuitive, but amazingly stubborn with that thick head and those deeply ingrained morals that Tony had grown to resent and envy.
"Your blood alcohol content was six times the driving limit." Steve rubbed his temples. Clint popped a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed quietly. Tony gestured for some. Clint threw it over. Tony dropped it, tried to pick it up, and gave up. His other arm was in a cast.
"Did I break it?" Clint shook his head.
"Sprained your wrist. The cast is just an accessory."
"They'll be in season next year, I swear."
"Better get mine before the masses rush in." Clint scoffed and shook his head. The edges of Tony's lips crawled upwards slightly. Steve still had his head in his hand, staring at the floor with his his elbows on his knees. The perfect image of mourning...but for whom? His missed date from 70 years ago? Man, that guy needs to move on. Oh wait, that thought dripped with hypocrisy, didn't it?
"Hey, go check on Natasha for me." Clint looked confused. "She's not on a mission. She's fine."
"Then go check on Bruce, or Thor, or, I don't know, that pigeon that took a dump on you last week."
Clint looked less confused and left.
Steve didn't look up when he spoke. "Your liver almost gave out. Oh, and your kidneys were basically shot, too. The only reason you aren't experiencing the world's greater hangover now is because I begged them to flush it out of your system. Dialysis, I think." Steve stood up suddenly, the chair sliding back and hitting the wall. "Do you know how much you scared me, how much you scared all of us? When you just passed out like that, and all we could do is watch doctors flush every bit of booze out of your blood? Do you think we enjoy being able to kick every enemy's ass except that little sneaky one in a bottle you keep in your room? Do you think we enjoy that?" Steve didn't shout. He whispered. Tony just stared. When Steve saw that he wasn't responding anytime soon, he kneeled at the billionaire's bedside, desperation in his eyes. "We can't lose you again, Tony. Don't give out on us. What happened? What could have possibly happened? Dammit, Tony, say something!" Tony said nothing, just stared into Steve's bright, icy blue eyes. They wouldn't it, Steve most of all. He would just listen and go back into his protective world of training and punching bags. Tony had nothing. Nothing constructive, nothing good. He wasn't Steve. He shut his eyes and slumped down.
Steve sighed. Tony heard the door open, then close gently. His breathing slowed as he neared the threshold of sleep. He never noticed the door open yet again, and he never felt the soft lips that brushed his.