Iron Man swerved to narrowly avoid a small passenger plane. "Dammit Jarvis! Warn me about approaching aircrafts!" He scowled and cussed under his breath. "I did, sir...Twice." Tony Stark sighed and blinked a few times to dislodge the image of the Captains body from the underside of his eyelids. "Jarvis, changing course. We're going back to Stark towers." Jarvis replied cordially. "Of course, sir. Changing route from Alaska to New York, New York."
When Tony had first flown away from the funeral, he needed to disappear for a while, he needed to escape the way his head pounded and his eyes stung and his throat ached to scream. What he needed was Steve. The suit lost a little altitude as that thought flashed through Tony's mind. He resolutely decided that now what he needed was to build something. Anything. He needed to feel metal mold beneath his hands, he needed the bolts and screws and hammers and lug nuts and anything but the glass of the coffin. He needed to occupy his mind. As he walked down the slope into the Stark tower's glass windowed room, robotic arms began to strip him of his armor. And although the weight of the suit was lifted, it still felt as though gravity was becoming heavier. Now, more than ever, without his suit he felt exposed, scared and alone. The man supposedly made of iron rolled his shoulders, as if to dislodge the weight, and went to pour himself a drink.
"You shouldn't drink so much, Stark. You should know better." Tony looked up from the metal he was saudering in annoyance before taking another sip of scotch. "Who let you in, Cap? Was it Jarvis? I bet it was Jarvis. For an AI he's pretty damn vengeful. He's just mad that I updated his mainframe because it had bugs on it. Probably got it from that motherboard he'd been messing around with. He never listens and I always end up..." Steve cut him off before he could continue on with his long-winded speech. "Tony, I let myself in. Calm down." Tony tilted his head back and let his eyes go wide. He turned in a complete circle, looking around the room, confused. "But this is the..." he counted on his fingers "Eleventyith story! There aren't doors here!" Steve coughed to cover a laugh and shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I took the elevator...?" Stark squinted one eye half shut in scrutiny of his companion's logical response. Raising an eyebrow, then nodding, he turned and began to pick at the hot metal. The soldier jumped forward to stop Tony from burning himself, pulling him back by the shoulders. Tony looked up at him curiously, tilting his head from side to side, as though looking at Rogers from every feasible angle. Steve dropped his hands back down to his sides, flushing a bit. "We should get you to bed...You're...uhm...what's the word? Smashed?" Tony pursed his lips and nodded, "Yes, I am smash-" The last syllable was punctuated by a whoof of air as he tripped over his own feet and flopped to the ground like his bones were made of jelly. "Swell..." Rogers murmured under his breath. Bending down, he lifted Tony over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carried him out of the workshop, bumping his head on the door jamb on the way out. Tony whined a protest at the jolt but continued to hang across Steve's shoulder limply, half asleep.
Wandering aimlessly around the "eleventyith" story of Stark Towers, Steve searched in vain for a bed or couch to put Tony down on until he could find someplace more fitting for a millionaire playboy. As the thought passed through his head Steve wondered what exactly a "playboy" was and firmly decided to brave the "internets" to find it. Frustrated with the twisting corridors and all together too many doors, he settled for the counter of the bar. Clearing the glasses and bottles slowly, with one hand, he noted the unnecessary amount of aged scotch that Tony had. He figured it was simply for the price, the flashy name brand labels and the stigma they carted around with them. As he moved the last remaining cup from the marble counter Tony awoke with a start and clutched the back of the Captain's shirt with both hands. "Fuck! Shit fuck shit! Steve! Steve! I am UPSIDE DOWN. THIS IS DISORIENTING." With a chuckle Steve flipped Tony back up and onto the counter. The confused, and still plastered, Tony gripped the edge of the counter hard, his feet on the sink and his posterior firmly planted on the marble counter above. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, before passing out and falling backwards off the counter and onto the floor. He heard a thump before the world faded to black.
Downing another glass of scotch, Tony leaned his head back against the headboard and submitted himself to the spinning in his head and his stomach. Taking three deep breaths to calm the panic building inside of him, he opened his eyes and stared intently at the crack on the ceiling. He remembered how Steve had insisted on sleeping on this side of the bed because back in the Brooklyn home of his childhood little Steve had a crack like this one on his ceiling. Tony was halfway through repairing it when the look in Steve's eyes spoke of a fondness for the little imperfection. He'd spent the next three hours undoing all his caulking work and repairing the crack to it's former state, all the while cursing Steve for being so damn sentimental and for being able to manipulate him without even a spoken word. Stark shuffled down on the bed, pressing his nose into the pillow. The soldier's smell was still there, but it was fading. In a matter of days it would be gone and it would be as though Steve was never even there. As though he hadn't existed. But Tony knew that could never be true. There would always be a space inside of him in case the love of his life decided to come back to fill it one day. There would always be Steve's sketches tacked up on the wall, sketches of Tony working, of the Brooklyn skyline, even of Natasha in action. Those had been harder to get, Nat was secretive about her work outs. But Tony had sneaked in with a camera for Steve and gotten his ass sorely kicked in the process. He laughed bitterly at that memory. His lips started to turn down, a sudden rage overtaking him. If Nat had done her job right, then Steve would be here. It should have been her. Tony threw the tumbler in his hand with everything he had against the far wall. It shattered and dripped down the walls. He pressed his hands to his face and rolled onto his side, curling into himself and drifting into a deep, alcohol induced slumber.