This long overdue companion piece to Scotch and Leather was requested by Couplets. I hope this satisfies your curiosity, Couplets! Enjoy!
(I would advise reading that one before reading this one to avoid confusion.)
Some form of light gives his eyelids a sloppy kiss and Tony wrinkles his nose. The brightness is persistent, despite his adverse reaction. Grumbling under his alcohol-stained breath, he grudgingly cracks open his left eye because his right one is smashed into something white and fluffy. It might be a pillow. Once his pupil shrinks to the appropriate size to accommodate the influx of light, he recognizes the source as a light bulb. It's not an extraordinary light bulb. There's nothing special about it. It's a sphere of glass filled with wire filaments. But it is sitting inside a lampshade and that's enough to make Tony want to sit up. Or maybe he's just sick of sleeping on the cheek that has a little string of drool dribbling on it.
He jolts upward, head peeling away from the pillowcase, discordantly yanking his arms out from beneath the blankets and slapping his own face in his attempt to wipe away the saliva. Most of it is dry and his uncoordinated limbs aren't getting him any closer to being clean. Disgusted, disoriented and still caught in the lingering effects of dreaming, he gives up. His useless arms fall limply onto the top of the comforter. It's then that he realizes his hands have bandages on them. And while he's realizing things, he realizes how thirsty he is. He glances toward the light and grimaces at the shine.
"You're awake," a voice states pleasantly from the depths of the glow.
"Apparently," is the only witty reply Tony can come up with this soon after waking.
The desire for water gets stronger with every passing second and he fumbles around with arms that feel like spaghetti noodles. Eventually, he manages to get them under control enough to shove aside the covers. Now all that's left is for him to swing his legs off the mattress, stand, walk to the bathroom, grab one of those little paper cups, fill it with water and then he can drink. As he contemplates it, it almost seems like too much work. But his dry throat is insistent. His tongue also complains. And it would be nice to rinse the fuzzy taste from his mouth. So swinging, standing, walking, grabbing, filling and drinking it is.
His legs rotate, wrinkling the sheets. After a moment of dropping through nothing but air, his toes locate the floor, sinking into the luxurious carpeting. His heels follow, dragging his ankles and calves along for the ride. Since his thighs are on top of those and his torso is connected to them, he soon finds himself upright. The change in position agrees with neither his brain nor his stomach and he pitches forward. Right when he thinks his nose is going to get a quick makeover, courtesy of the floor, hands appear out of nowhere to brace his shoulders. Nose crisis averted, Tony blinks in relief and tries to settle the merry-go-round in his middle.
"Easy," the other voice recommends.
"I'm fine," comes out of Tony's mouth only a second before the vomit does.
Without the presence of food, it's nothing more than a stream of thin liquid that burns, and he gags a few extra times. When he finishes, he wipes his chin. He needs that water now more than ever. Coating every tooth, the slimy feeling of bile makes him feel sick again but now he knows his stomach is empty and he simply refuses to go through all those muscle contractions for nothing. Steeling his nerves, he resolves to push through the dizziness and the urge to throw up again so he can have his drink.
Before he gets the chance to test his determination, a cool glass of water is pressed into one hand and the plastic wastebasket from the bathroom is pushed into the other. He gratefully guzzles the water and swishes around a mouthful before spitting it out in the garbage. The taste of vomit isn't easily erased so he repeats the process. He's going to need to scrub his entire mouth with some wintergreen toothpaste but he can do that later. It's enough for right now that he can swallow water that isn't flavored like acid.
A damp cloth passes over his feet as it's used to clean up his mess. His brow furrows and he glances over the top of his cup at his companion. The figure kneeling on the floor, scrubbing vomit from the carpet, has broad shoulders and blond hair. Tony only knows two men who fit that description and he sincerely hopes it's the Norse demigod. Thor is easily distracted and not prone to lecturing or giving disapproving looks. Tony's head is being squeezed between an invisible pair of tweezers, his muscles are aching for no apparent reason and he feels like he wants to either swallow an ocean or sleep for the rest of the year. He is not in the mood for a reprimand from America's Golden Boy.
"Thor?" he calls out hopefully.
Blue eyes briefly flick up to his, patient amusement turning them cerulean. "Sorry, Tony. It's just me," Steve informs him.
"Of course it is," Tony grumbles, dropping backward onto his pillows so he can glare at the ceiling.
"How are you feeling?" Steve politely inquires, reaching for the wastebasket Tony let fall to the floor.
"Peachy," Tony snaps.
Steve doesn't rise to the bait. "So you're finished with this?" He holds up the bucket.
"I hope so," Tony breathes out, air leaving his lungs in a sluggish wave of puffy marshmallows.
On his way to the bathroom to dispose of the soiled rag, Steve tosses over his shoulder, "You sure get moody when you're drunk."
A cold shiver of dread douses the lethargic fog that had been in the process of settling over Tony's mind. "What?"
"First you're mad, then you're sad. You're grumpy and you're complacent." The sound of gushing faucet water breaks into the conversation as Steve washes out the wastebasket. "Make up your mind," he jokingly commands.
Tony's eyes widen and every muscle in his body freezes. "I'm usually a very happy drunk," he defends, aiming for levity and falling somewhere in the middle of wary and uncomfortable.
"I'm sure you are." Steve comes out of the bathroom, with a couple of pills in his hand. "Here. These will help with the headache." He holds them out to Tony, who automatically draws back.
"I don't like being handed things," he explains, edging away.
Steve smiles in a way Tony thinks is patronizing before setting the medicine on the bedside table. "If you need anything else, just tell Jarvis to notify me." He gathers a small notebook and a pencil off the chair that Tony now notices was pulled near the bed. Reaching for the lamp switch, Steve pauses. "Do you want this on or off?"
Tony, who's still trying to puzzle out how Steve knows about his drunken mood swings, gives a twitch of his head that could be taken as either a nod or a shake. He leaves it open to Steve's interpretation. Steve gives a small shrug and turns off the light. The room is swallowed in black and it takes Tony a moment to realize the darkness isn't complete. The drapes are tied back from his window, allowing the city lights to drift along his bedroom walls and paint patterns on the ceiling. Pale red, shy yellow and angelic ivory illuminate Steve's outline as he moves to the door.
"What day is today?" Tony abruptly questions. It's always difficult to keep track of the time when he drowns it in scotch.
Steve pauses and turns around. "Thursday."
Tony frowns. "It can't be Thursday."
"It is," Steve assures him.
"Jarvis, what day is it?" Tony petulantly inquires.
"Captain Rogers is correct. Today is Thursday," Jarvis tells him.
"But that would mean I've been asleep for..." Tony trails off as his mind refuses to do a simple arithmetic problem.
"Thirty-seven hours," Steve supplies.
Tony shakes his head. "No way."
"If you need to ask Jarvis again, go ahead," Steve invites.
A disconcerting thought come's to Tony's mind. "Have you been staring at me this whole time?" he questions, concerned.
Steve laughs. "No. Despite what you might think, I do have better things to do than watch you drool."
Tony wipes self-consciously at his cheek.
"But I have been coming in every now and then to check on you. I'm sorry if I woke you. The lamp never bothered you before," Steve apologizes.
"No, it's fine," Tony responds absently, searching his mind for any memories he might have of the past two days. It's nothing but watercolors and cotton balls in that time slot and he huffs, frustrated.
"You should probably try to get some sleep," Steve suggests, taking a step forward.
Tony doesn't know what happened. He has no data to work with except Steve's vague observation about his moodiness, which is far from reassuring. "Before you go," Tony starts, once again halting Steve's exit. "Uh..." His mouth is suddenly dry, despite the glass of water he finished only moments earlier. "Did I..er..what did I-" He clears his throat because Tony Stark is never speechless and he certainly never asks questions he doesn't want the answers to. "I just want to apologize for my drunken behavior if it embarrassed, physically injured, or in any other way, insulted you," he finishes in a rush.
There's a flicker of something in Steve's eyes. But either Steve's getting better at hiding what he's thinking or Tony's hangover is worse than he thought, because he can't decipher what that something is. It could be relief. It might be anger. It's probably exasperation.
"Don't feel special or anything," Tony is quick to add because that something is unnerving him. "I give that exact same apology to everybody after I've been drinking."
Steve nods once and smiles, and Tony hopes it's only the fluttering lights that make the expression look so forced. "Good night, Tony," Steve says as he opens the door and slips out into the hallway.
The door closes behind him and Tony can't help but stay awake, trying to puzzle out the mysterious something that passed through the captain's gaze.
Tony's eyelids open, informing him that he must have fallen asleep again at some point. This time, sunlight blasts through the glass windowpanes, spreading into every corner of the large bedroom suite. With a grumble, Tony squirms beneath the blankets, engaging in an internal debate about getting up. His body is content to spend the rest of his life in the cozy comfort of his mattress and bedding. But his mind smacks him with the fact that he has an unresolved problem to work on and it promises him it won't let him have any peace until he solves it.
As he slides out from beneath the comforter, he wishes he didn't have such a driving need to fix things. It all comes from being a mechanic, he tells himself as he stumbles through the bathroom door. He goes to open the drawer beside the sink. When he does, he's reminded that his hands are wrapped in soft, clean bandages and he knows he wants to investigate what's under the white material. But he'll do that later. There's something he has to do first. He retrieves his toothbrush and, after a generous helping of toothpaste and a splash of water, he's working hard to lather his mouth in minty foam. The crisp flavor not only replaces the moss that he was sure had been growing between his teeth while he slept, but it also chases the fuzziness of sleep away from his brain.
Rested and refreshed, he heads back into the bedroom for some clean clothes. The ones he has on are a wrinkled mess, dotted with motor oil. Not to mention the suspicious stain on his pant leg. It smells like alcohol and he grimaces before tossing the jeans in the corner. Someone will come to clean them up later. Now, on to the investigation. Carefully, he lifts the edge of the bandage on his left hand. A shiny pink blister peeks out at him and he winces in self-pity. It's a nasty looking burn, but it seems well on its way to recovery. He assumes he'll find more of the same on his right hand so he doesn't see the point in disturbing the meticulously secured wrapping. Instead, he decides he's going to go find something to eat. Besides alcohol, water and toothpaste, he hasn't consumed anything in over two days and his stomach asserts that it's starving.
Quickly, he crosses the room and opens his door. The hallway looks unfamiliar to him. He doesn't often sleep in his bedroom. Usually, he passes out wherever he's working, whether it's the bench in the lab or the couch in the living room or even the seat of his parked car in the garage. The times he does sleep in his room, he always starts work again first thing in the morning, meaning that his head is bent over his phone or tablet. It's a new experience to be wandering around the corridor with the simple aim of admiring the view. Once again he's struck by the fact that his genius has given birth to the ultimate architectural beauty. He pauses in front of the gleaming elevator doors and presses the button to open them. They slide apart flawlessly, rolling perfectly on their tracks. He steps into the car and selects the floor which has the communal kitchen and living room. It's hardly noticeable when the lift begins its journey. In less than a minute, a soft bell chimes and the doors open again to reveal a hallway that leads into the kitchen. Laughter drifts toward him, emanating from that room and Tony feels himself smile. He can see the back of Clint's head where the archer is seated at the table. Natasha's profile is dark against the white cupboards and even though he can't see him, Tony heard Steve's quiet chuckle blended with the more enthusiastic snickering of the agents, so he knows the captain is in there too. Feeling surprisingly alert for so early in the morning, Tony boldly enters the kitchen with all his signature Stark swagger.
Clint immediately twists in his seat to look at him and the marksman's laughter cuts off abruptly. A frown moves onto his mouth and Tony doesn't like the look of it. He's seen many of Clint's frowns. And this one isn't the 'I'm-thinking-of-something-depressing-from-my-past' frown. It's not the 'I'm-concentrating-really-hard' frown. And, gosh, does Tony wish it was the 'I'm-only-pretending-to-be-disapproving-but-secretly-I-think-what-you-just-said-was-hilarious-and-I-wish-I-had-thought-of-it-first' frown. But it looks more like the 'I'm-mad-at-you-and-debating-whether-or-not-it's-worth-the-effort-to-kill-you' frown. Tony can't help but swallow reflexively.
Looking away from the assassin who may or may not be plotting his demise, Tony hesitantly moves a little further across the floor tiles, wondering what caused the sudden change in his normally amiable companion. He looks to Steve, whose expression is one of concerned interest as he sets down the mug in his hand and runs his eyes over the billionaire, visually assessing the state of his health. The action is typical of the leader of the team and so Tony gains no insight into Clint's mood swing. It's only when Natasha turns to face him head on, left eye still swollen around the edges, that Tony understands. The purple/green/yellow skin jolts his memory, slapping away the cotton fuzz from his mind that were hindering his recall of the past week. It all rushes back to him-the mission, the bunker, his arrogance, guards, orders, defiance, panicspinningoutofcontrolflashboomNatashastruggleClintfallingshoutingchaosdarkness, cockpit interior, medical attention, failuredisappointmentburningshame, labs and locks and machinery and solitude and frustration and alcohol and misery and hate and self-loathing and guiltguiltguilt.
Suddenly his throat tightens and his appetite flees, disappearing in a flash of nausea. He takes a step back, knees wobbling. His eyes flicker like candle flames trembling in a draft, never settling on any one person. Steve, Natasha and Clint all receive little more than a blink before Tony's gaze skitters away to the toaster, the oven, the fridge, the sink, anywhere but them. He can't look at them. If he does, he'll find them staring back with accusation because their only solid lead on the whereabouts of Hydra's remaining leadership got destroyed and it's all his fault.
The reality of the situation punches him in the gut and the air leaves his lungs as he comes to realize that this isn't something he can just shrug off. They were so close to discovering the names and locations of the final players in the organization. In other words, they had the opportunity to stab the heart of the beast, preventing the growth of any more of its hideous heads. But Tony messed up and now they're back to square one, clueless and frustrated, while their enemies become one more step ahead of them, gleefully planning more evil and destruction. Maybe he's getting wise in his old age, but Tony knows that he can't flippantly make light of his mistakes anymore. He has to own up to them, face the consequences and repair the damage he's done. His mind knows this but his body betrays him.
Before he can stop himself, he skirts around the edge of the kitchen, maintaining a ten foot distance between himself and his teammates. Once clear of them, he bolts into the living room and keeps going until he feels solid glass push back against his chest. He's reached the window and for a minute, all he does is press himself closer to the cold surface, letting it chill his skin as he stares down at the city spread below.
The buildings look tiny and Tony feels tiny too. He only wishes his ego could have felt this tiny a week ago and then maybe none of this would have happened. Then he wouldn't have brazenly defied Steve's orders, left his teammates vulnerable and ruined their only shot at stopping Hydra. He wouldn't have locked himself away in his lab like a coward. He wouldn't have consumed far more than a healthy amount of alcohol and...Tony's concentration splinters as he stumbles on a horribly embarrassing memory.
Things are still blurry in his mind but the little he can see through the fog makes him squirm in discomfort. Apparently, the very person he had intentionally rebelled against came to drag his sorry behind out of his lab. And not only had he resisted the initial attempt to help but he'd also lashed out with all the viciousness he could manage in his scotch-soaked state. But then, much to his surprise, Steve wasn't deterred by all the nasty barbs and insults. Instead, he graciously carried Tony upstairs and tucked him into bed, disregarding the fact that the billionaire was soggy with alcohol, tears and self-loathing.
Footsteps sound on the floor behind him and Tony would recognize them anywhere. They're the same ones that criss-crossed his bedroom, checking up on him, cleaning his vomit and nursing him through the worst of his hangover. Closing his eyes, Tony wishes Steve would disappear. Or maybe he wishes he himself could. He silently calculates the distance from the window to the elevator, trying to figure out if he could run to it before Steve would catch him. Given that Steve has super human speed, Tony doubts it. But maybe if he acts prickly enough, Steve will leave him alone.
Two realizations occur to Tony. The first is that his natural response to emotionally compromising situations is to be unpleasant in the hopes of chasing the other person away and thereby avoiding emotional vulnerability. The second is that his attempt to implement this strategy had been unsuccessful last time. Obviously, Steve is immune to the famous Stark sarcasm and malice.
Steve pauses a short distance away, close enough to offer support but far enough to maintain privacy. Tony knows he doesn't deserve it, especially after everything he put the soldier through. Inhaling and exhaling quickly, as if cramming in as many breaths as he can before the confrontation starts, Tony waits for Steve to initiate the conversation. Steve doesn't disappoint.
"How are you doing, Tony?" he inquires.
The question isn't as pointed as 'are you okay?' but it's still phrased in such a way that Tony doesn't have as much room for a vague answer as he'd like. His tongue itches to move. He can feel the saliva lubricating it. Half-formed words jump to the front of his mouth and he almost lets them out into the morning air. But when he looks up, he can see Steve's reflection in the glass, overlaying the view of New York. The image is pale and thin but Tony can still see the intensity in the blue eyes, the genuine concern in the loosely crossed arms and the determination in the set of his shoulders and feet. Steve excepts an honest answer and he won't back down until he gets one. The sarcastic comment that was growing in Tony's mouth melts into a sigh and he shrugs before answering.
"Doing what?" Tony nearly winces. So he can't turn his humor settings to zero. Sue him.
Taking it in stride, Steve merely looks at him until Tony shifts beneath the weight of his gaze and changes his answer.
"Well, I feel better now than I have in weeks. Maybe I should get drunk more often," he jokes because, despite his resolution to do better, life-long habits aren't changed overnight.
"Tony..." Steve says and it's a reprimand, exasperation and encouragement all at once.
Tony will never understand how Steve manages to pack so many conflicting emotions into one word. In his own head, Tony likes to refer to it as Steve's 'Captain of the Team' tone. Picking at the bandage on his left hand, Tony hesitates before speaking again because three strikes and he's out.
Clearing his throat buys him a couple of extra seconds to collect his thoughts. He weighs the pros and cons of coming clean. It's when he realizes, with a twinge of embarrassment, that Steve's already seen him at his lowest, seen him when he was drunk and depressed and sick and hungover, that there's probably nothing that he could say now that would be worse than what he's already said.
Unable to delay any longer, Tony finally turns around. Seeing the three dimensional body in front of him is more intimidating than staring through the transparent reflection in the window and Tony swallows. Shame twists his stomach up into a rolled sleeping bag shape and he finds himself feeling exposed under Steve's carefully neutral expression. The window is too close behind him, the walls too close around him and there's nowhere for him to hide from Steve.
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to pretend that last night never happened, would you?" Tony hopefully questions.
Steve shakes his head. "You can't ignore this, Stark."
"I can try," Tony asserts, flexing his fingers.
"Tony," Steve starts in that same tone of leadership and Tony hurries to cut him off.
"Look, I messed up, okay? I get it and I'm sorry."
His open admission catches them both by surprise and they blink at each other in the ensuing silence. The words are out in the open and Tony can't take them back, no matter how much he might wish he could hide them under layers of witty banter. Although the desire to conceal his mistakes is still there, it isn't as strong as it usually is. For some reason, Tony doesn't feel ashamed and his brain wants to connect his new-found confidence and security with the scent of leather.
"I'm sorry I wrecked our only chance at tracking those bastards down. I'm sorry I locked myself away for three whole days. And I'm sorry I gave you hell about it," he finishes in a rush before taking a pause for breath.
Steve looks completely caught off guard, as if an apology was the last thing he was expecting. Tony doesn't blame him. Starks don't make apologies. But Tony's going to be damned if he doesn't make an exception. Steve deserves that much. Seeming to regain himself, Steve uncrosses his arms, takes a step forward and places a hand on Tony's shoulder.
"Hey, we all make mistakes, right?" He mouth forms a quiet smile, the kind that makes it obvious his body was scientifically prevented from aging when he was twenty-two. It's the smile that erases the lines of worry and exhaustion from his forehead, that peels back the hard layers of emotional fortitude and physical resilience until all that's left is his compassionate heart shining through.
Tony consider Steve's words, while contemplating the palm on his shoulder. It's a generous offer to wipe the slate clean and file all his shortcomings under 'messes: made, forgiven, resolved and forgotten'.
"What about Hydra?" Tony makes himself ask, even though his mind is wondering how Steve can be so willing to overlook all the hateful things Tony said to him.
Steve shrugs. "We'll find them," he states simply.
And Tony believes him. It's not because he needs some thread of hope to cling to in order to gain absolution. It's because Steve isn't making empty platitudes. He's laying out a plan of action. There isn't a scrap of doubt in his mind that they will accomplish their task. Listening to that kind of assurance, Tony feels himself unable to do anything else but agree. Hydra might be a few steps ahead of them but that doesn't mean the Avengers won't catch up and rid the world of them once and for all.
But that's only one half of the issue and Tony looks up to meet Steve's eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yet, just like back in the lab, it never does. There's no secret anger or buried resentment turning Steve's eyes a cloudy gray. They are perfectly blue, without a trace of silver hurt or steel-colored judgement. Whatever that something was that Tony thought he saw earlier is completely gone. Relief gushes through his body, filling him with a weightlessness he didn't know he was craving until he felt it.
"Of course we will," he finally responds to Steve's statement. "We're Avengers."
He parrots Steves's use of the pronoun 'we' because it means his position on the team is secure. His teammates aren't going to leave him because he screwed up and his leader isn't going to abandon him because he was hurtful. The sun climbs higher in the sky behind him, heating Tony's back and illuminating the grin on Steve's face. Tony nods once, content with this moment of time.