A/N: This is my first fic in YEARS, the last time I wrote something, it was back in 2007, so bear with me. :)
Chapter 1
11:00 PM Los Angeles, CA
"Tony, come to bed," I say from the doorway of the basement workshop. He doesn't look back- he probably didn't hear me. I walk behind him and place my hand on his shoulder, "Tony..."
He turns around and looks at me, his eyes have dark, dark circles under them. His lips pressed into a firm line, making him look older than he is. The last time he slept was about two days ago.
"I'm fine," He brushes my hand off his shoulder.
"Tony, please, it's been-"
"Two days, Steve, I'm fine," He cuts me off and turns his back to me, "I can sleep when these repairs are finished."
"You can't keep yourself locked in here all the time," I'm trying to stay calm, but my blood is starting to boil.
"Can and will, is there a point to this, Spangles?" He asks, there's an edge to his voice.
"The point is that I'm worried about you and I-" I'm cut off again as he lets out a sigh and stands up.
"Look, worrying about me isn't going to do anything, just go back upstairs," He spoke quietly, keeping his back to me.
"I'm not going anywhere, not until you decide to talk about this, with me or with Dr. Banner,"
Tony turns around to look at me, the same look on his face. My heart jumps in my chest, I've only seen him angry like this a few times. His hands are in fists, and his jaw, clenched.
"Jarvis, please show Steve the stairs," He says slowly. The MK 47 walks around his workbench and starts to push at me to leave. Tony has made his choice about how he'll deal with the trauma that happened in New York, I don't seem in the equation for that choice.
3:20 AM
I turn over, he's still not in bed. He's not coming to bed, I tell myself, he'll never come to bed. The bedroom floor is cold from my feet as I rise from the bed. I turn the lock on the bedroom door and open my overnight bag. The small baggie is sitting on top of folded shirts and jeans, full of white powder and tempting. I need to stay awake.
It's suddenly in my hand, the baggie. I sit back on the bed and empty a bit of the contents into the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. The dust hits my nasal passages and I feel the instant rush to my head.
"What the fuck am I doing?" I ask myself. You're doing cocaine, a voice in the back of my head tells me. It sounds oddly like Tony, smart-assed and overconfident like the prick he is. My fingers flick the baggie back into my duffel. Tony, Tony, Tony, the name is repeating in my head, and just who the fuck does he think he is anyways? Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, in-the-fucking-closet-with-an-avenger, jackass. All of these swim in my head and I know they're true, he and I sneak around, fulfilling fangirl dreams, while he parades around in public with that bitch, Pepper. I'd like to knock her out.
Knocking, knocking. I sit up, someone's knocking at the bedroom door. Probably has been, I've lost track of time again, how long have they been at the door? I stand up and wipe under my nose, then wipe my hands on my sleep pants. Tony still doesn't know, he can't know.
"Steve, open the damn-" He stops as I fling the door open, probably a bit too enthusiastically. His eyes red, wet, Tony won't admit it, but I know he's been crying. He wraps his arms around me and my lips find his in the dark.
He's surprisingly forceful, pinning me back against a wall. I am an escape, nails digging into my chest and dragging down slowly. The moans escaping me only encourage his behavior, he pulls at the waistband of my sleep pants and drags them down. I don't resist, instead staring, wanting as he strips, the glowing of his arc reactor illuminating our skin.
Tony grabs my hair, pulling downwards. His lips meet mine for a split second before forcing me further down. This isn't about me, us, mutual feeling, this is about him. I am a tool for his escape, I am solely there for his enjoyment. I know all of this and still I don't resist.
It doesn't take long for him to get what he wants, a man who once prided himself on skill and the ability to last. The taste in my mouth is sour, but I swallow, he smiles down at me, ruffling my hair. It's over, I'm not getting anything. The door shuts as he leaves to shower, leaving me alone, blue balled, and nude on the bedroom floor.
My head pounds and I crawl into bed. The drug was cut or something, or I've built up a resistance, either way, I'm already coming down. Maybe it was the bad sex, or lack thereof, or the bad coke, but my mood has gone from bad to worse. My eyes finally slip closed and I allow myself to fall asleep, he's not coming to bed anyways.