"I am as bad as the worst….."
He'd been working on the Mark 42 for weeks now. In between spaces of too little sleep and too much alcohol, he'd work on his suits because that was really all he'd known. Pepper had left three weeks ago. Something about being done. Heh. Done. As if anything was ever as simple as simple done. No, she hadn't been done. She'd been done with him, sure, but not done with the company, not done with the endless calls asking him to sign the even more endless amount of papers.
"JARVIS?" he asked. Okay, slurred. It was slurred.
"Yes, sir?" came the annoyingly emotionless voice. Why hadn't he programmed his AI with emotions? "I do suggest you set the bottle down and get some rest. Ms. Potts has a meeting scheduled tomorrow. And I do think you will be having a lovely meeting with the floor if you do not heed my advice."
Oh, right. He had.
"Fuck off," is what he tried to say. He was fairly certain it came out more or less sounding like "fkkkuff" but eh, semantics. Rest didn't sound bad. Nightmares were the part that sounded bad.
He took a long drink of the whiskey, relishing the way it burned down his throat. He looked at the bottle, lifting it in front of his face. Through his blurred vision, he saw it was almost empty, the amber liquid sloshing around in the bottom. He sighed and tilted it up and into his mouth, ignoring the little trickle that slid down his chin. He set the bottle on the table; well, he tried. But then, the table ended up being five feet to the left of where it should've been, and god dammit who was moving his furniture without his permission?
The bottle shattered on the floor and he really couldn't bring himself to care because he really just wanted everything to be over because this hurt so much more than it should have and it took the edge off the nightmares and made him sleepy enough to actually want to sleep. So he did what any genius would do, and stood and made his way- more or less in a straight line, depending on what ones definition of straight actually was- to the bar, and cracked open a bottle, taking a long pull.
"Sir, did you need something?" came the irritatingly British voice. Oh, right. He'd called his AI's name. Why did he do that? Right, right. He wanted JARVIS to dull the lights.
"Dull the lights, s'too bright…." he mumbled.
"Of course, sir," JARVIS replied, and the lights dulled to a tolerable level. What was he doing? Oh, yeah, drinking. He took another drink, staring off into space. Space. Heh. Wasn't that what he had nightmares about? Not a good analogy. Wow. If he could still criticize his use of words, he hadn't drunk enough.
He didn't have time to contemplate this before a loud crash above him broke him from whatever drunken reverie he'd been in. He straightened up, grabbing the first thing he could find from his work table, not bothering to figure out what it was. He made his way to the elevator, figuring stairs would be too difficult to work right now. It took two tries to press the right button.
"Sir, I cannot trace the energy signature. It is unknown to me," JARVIS said. Tony sighed. Of course this would happen. On the night he was drunk. On the night he was finally about to sleep. Well, apparently life had an answer to his sleepy ramblings, and that answer was a solid fuck you.
He peeked out of the elevator, and took a tentative step out, making his way to where he thought the crash had come from.
He saw a pile of green and gold and black and was really fucking confused because what the hell did he own that was consecutively three different colors. And then the lump moved. He jumped back, brandishing whatever it was he'd grabbed above his head as he took a cautious step forward and poked at the pile. And it moved again. And moaned.
"I have connected the energy signature to a previous entry in the tower sir. It appears to be-"
Three things happened then. One, Tony completely tuned out JARVIS's voice. Two, the pile rolled over, and three, Tony let out a totally many yelp and whacked the pile with what he was holding.
"Loki," Tony breathed out. Sharp but tired blue eyes caught onto him and a murderous glare was set onto him.
"Figures this is where I would end up," Loki growled. An honest to god growl.
"Sir, I do suggest you call Director Fury-" JARVIS began but Tony cut him off.
"Quiet, JARVIS," he said, narrowing his eyes at Loki. Loki stared at Tony. Tony stared right back at Loki. It went on like this until Loki looked away, eyes roaming around. Tony took this time to look over the god. He looked terrible. He was pale, shaky and sweating. He had a multitude of bruises and nasty looking cuts.
"Might I be the one to say you look ill, Anthony Stark," Loki sneered.
"'Might I be the one to say you look ill, Anthony Stark'," Tony mimicked in a completely grown-up fashion. The god raised a brow and carefully stood, swaying a bit. "Well, Reindeer Games, while you're here, you might as well make yourself comfy. I don't have the energy to do anything about you right now," Tony, King of Good Decisions, said without a hint of regret. That was all Tony was able to get out before the ground suddenly got up close and personal with his nose. Heh. See, he knew he'd be able to sleep. He heard a huff of annoyance, felt strong arms lift him, felt the brush of panting breaths against his ear. The last thing he heard was a maniac laugh and a growling voice.
"Didn't you ever learn not to trust the God of Mischief, Anthony Stark?"