Chapter Three

"Boss, Captain Rogers is outside the door inquiring about your wellbeing."

Tony sighed. He was feeling a little dizzy, maybe it was from the shot or maybe it was from not eating enough or maybe the lack of sleep—probably all of it. Listing off the reasons made him feel even more like a mess.

"Don't tell him anything," Tony said. "Just give me a minute to think."

He'd put the workshop in lockdown earlier because he didn't want to face them. Seeing them had sent him into a tailspin. He felt like he was losing control. He didn't know what he was expecting to happen, bringing them all back together. Maybe he thought it would fix things, that facing them—facing Steve—would give him some peace, but this didn't feel like peace. His anxiety was reaching new heights.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Let him in, Fri," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat.

The door opened, and Tony looked up. Steve had his thumbs hooked in his pockets and his shoulders were turned in like he was trying to look smaller, maybe less intimidating. It wasn't working.

"Hey." Steve smiled. "Can we talk?"

Tony shrugged, looking to the floor and nudging a piece of metal with his foot. He was tired and didn't have the strength for an argument. "There's nothing to talk about. You're cleared of charges, even Bucky. I saw to it myself."

"I wanted to talk about us."

"You want to talk about us?" he asked. "What we had—or almost had—is gone. You picked. You got what you wanted. I don't need your pity or whatever the hell you're here for now."

Anger he'd long forgotten came boiling back to the surface.

"I'm sorry, Tony." Steve took a step closer, making Tony's heart hammer in his chest. He could feel the shield cutting into him again. It hurt to breathe.

"If you were sorry, you wouldn't have left me to die! You would have told me about my parents—not let me get blindsided by some psycho!"

Steve's posture straightened, looking more commanding. "If you're this angry, why did you help us then? Why did you help Bucky? No one asked you to!" Steve's hands were clenched in fists and Tony couldn't help but flinch as he remembered the fight in the Siberia.

And then his chest began to tighten, and his breaths began coming in pants. Not now, he cursed himself. He didn't need to fall apart—not in front of him. Tony tried to slow his breathing, but his chest hurt—the scar from Steve's shield hurt. He pressed a hand to it, wanting the memories to stop.

"This isn't what I came to see you for. I'm sorry. I don't want to fight." Steve was talking but the words weren't sinking in. He was losing control—everything catching up to him at once.

He stumbled over to the couch, sitting down too quickly and yelping when the lump from his shot hit the cushion too hard. His hand went to his hip and he hissed. He could feel the heat from the swelling through his sweats.

Steve walked over to him and crouched down, reaching out, but it only caused Tony to flinch back.

"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have come," Steve said. "I'll pack my things. I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want to do this."

"No!" Tony said snapped, finding his voice. "You don't have go!" Damn, his own emotions were giving him whiplash. He wanted to keep him there as much as he wanted to push him away. "I just need time to adjust. I've got a lot on my plate right now—nothing to do with you guys."

Steve looked down. "Honestly, Tony, why'd you help us?"

Tony ran a hand through his hair. "Because you guys deserved more than to be fugitives, and after I had time to think and talk to T'Challa, I realized that the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes were two different people. I didn't have a right to hate an innocent man."

Tony sighed, shifting so his hip wasn't pressed on the couch, hand going to touch the spot.

Steve noticed, glancing to where Tony was holding his hip.

"Are you hurt?" Steve asked. "I'm no Banner but maybe I can help."

"I'm fine," Tony lied. "It's nothing."

The soldier raised a brow, studying him. Tony felt himself shift under the weight of his scrutiny. He could tell Steve wasn't buying his lie, but he sure as hell wasn't going to tell him the truth.

The silence was broken by Steve sighing. "I mean it when I say thank you for everything. I'm sorry for what happened between us. I never meant to hurt you."

Tony waved him off. "No problem. You're forgiven."

"You don't mean that."

"I do so just drop it." Tony's tone was hard. "It's water under the bridge and all that crap."

"Okay." Steve sighed. "Will you at least tell me what's wrong? Even Bucky noticed something isn't right and he barely knows you."

Tony shrugged. "Like I said, I'm fine. Now if you don't mind, I'm gonna take a nap, so feel free to see yourself out."

Tony could see the hurt flash over Steve's face. He hated being cold to him. His heart ached pushing him away. They'd been so close before, walking the line of friendship and relationship—leaning heavily toward relationship—but now Steve had Bucky. The ex-assassin was the jelly to Steve's peanut butter. They were stupidly perfect for each other.

Steve stood. "You need anything before I go?"

Tony sighed. He kinda did, though he was loathed to admit it. He was feeling shitty and sore, and the ice packs were all the way across the room in the mini fridge.

"Could you grab an ice pack from the freezer for me?" Tony asked.

Steve looked at him concerned. "If you're not hurt, why do you need one?"

Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. "Never mind. I'll get it. Just go."

"No," the soldier said. "Stay. I'll get it. Just promise me you're alright."

"I'm fine, just a little sore."

Steve nodded but walked past the debris on the floor to the fridge and pulled an ice pack from the freezer. He walked back over to Tony, handing it to him.

"Thanks," Tony said, yawning and then placing it on his hip. It immediately felt better.

Steve studied him for minute and then ran his hand through his hair with a sigh. "I'll let you rest. We ordered out if you are interested. Should be here soon."

Tony just shook his head and curled into the couch, too tired to care what he looked like. He closed his eyes and listened for Steve to leave. He heard his steps grow distant and fade, and then he drifted off to sleep.

Tony awoke a few hours later, his ice pack warm and hip sore. He really should have relaxed like the doctor suggested, probably wouldn't hurt half as bad. Tossing the ice pack onto the couch, he pushed himself up to sit. He slipped his hand under the waistband of his sweats and felt for the spot the injection had been. He cringed when he felt how big the knot was and how painful it was to touch.

He stood and stretched, then walked over to the coffee maker. He grabbed one of the cleaner looking cups and poured himself a coffee. It was barely lukewarm, but he drank it anyway. He felt foggy and tired. He missed the manic energy he'd had not long ago. He'd gone from flying high and not needing sleep, inventing at all hours, to whatever the hell this was, this zombie like state. It didn't seem fair.

He'd gone years before with no meds, back in his twenties when he got himself into a lot of trouble, but after Afghanistan, things had changed. He gave up drinking, he saw a psychiatrist again, went into therapy—did all the right things. He was doing damn well too, but then came wormholes, Ultron, and then Siberia piling on top of his already messed up mind. He lost JARVIS. He lost his friends. He lost everything and fell into a deep depression. He quit his meds, wanting to feel something again, but it only made his depression worse and he ended up trying to take his life—slicing open his arm from wrist to elbow.

After Pepper found him, bleeding out, he was admitted to a private facility and got back on medication. His moods settled out and he was okay. He was able to gather himself and fight for his team, to amend the Accords. He did it all, but then somehow things just started slipping again. They always did.

He started missing doses here and there, started losing sleep. He stopped eating because his stomach always felt like it was in a knot—food just didn't settle right. He got weaker and lost weight. Pepper and Rhodey started picking up on something being wrong. He was ranting and making little sense. They threatened hospitalization if he didn't start complying. It was then that Dr. Cho decided that an injectable might be a good fit—leading him to his current cocktail of meds. They worked when he took them, but he still struggled to do it. There was always an excuse on the tip of his tongue—a reason he could put off taking them for another day.

He downed the last dregs of his coffee. It was bitter and cold. He glanced at his watch. It was later than he thought. Nearly six o'clock. He'd slept most of the day, yet he still felt exhausted.

He grabbed another ice pack and turned to head upstairs to his room, wanting to forget everything, to forget that look on Steve's face when he'd cut into him. Part of him wished that things weren't so beyond repair, but he knew they were. Even if they could find common ground, Steve had Bucky now and he didn't need a broken mechanic with more secrets than truths. He was a mess of scars and crazy thoughts. He wasn't worth the effort. He didn't deserve it. He was used goods, broken and tarnished.

When he got to the main hallway, he could hear the team talking in the common room. He could smell the food. His stomach hurt a little from hunger, but he wasn't ready to face them. Steve had been enough for one day.

He slipped down the side corridor, making sure not to draw attention to himself, when he literally bumped into the muscular wall of Bucky's chest. His heart began to race—his instincts telling him to run.

"Sorry," Tony sputtered, stepping around him. His gaze flicked up, connecting with Bucky's for a moment. How had he missed how blue his eyes were before? They reminded him of Steve's but maybe darker. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Are you hurt?" Bucky asked, gesturing to the ice pack.

Tony wasn't sure what to say. He had never really spoken to Bucky before.

"Yeah, just bumped into a table," Tony lied. "No biggie. It'll be fine in a few days."

Bucky tilted his head. "You're a bad liar."

Tony shifted, uncertain. "Right," he said. "I've gotta go, so yeah. Why don't you run off and join the rest of the Scooby Gang for dinner?"

Bucky's brows knit in confusion.

"Never mind. I forget the things you've missed out on." Tony shook his head. "Anyway, go eat. I'll see you around."

"Wait," Bucky said, stopping his escape. "I was planning on talking to you later, but I guess now's as good a time as any. I just wanted to thank you—for everything. You gave me another chance. You didn't have to, but you did."

Tony put up his hand to stop him. "Don't. Really. It wasn't your fault, and as for what happened in Siberia … I'm sorry. It was just a shock, too much all at once and I lost control. It was my fault—"

"No! It wasn't your fault," Bucky said, shaking his head. "Anyone would have reacted the same way."

The cold from the ice pack was stinging his hand, keeping him grounded. He focused on it, centering himself.

"Look, no use crying over spilt milk," Tony said. "It happened, and we can't change it, so just make yourself at home. If you need anything, just ask Friday."

Bucky nodded. "Thank you."

"Like I said," he said. "It's all good. Go grab some food and visit with Steve and your friends. God knows how much you super soldiers need to eat." He chuckled dryly.

A frown tugged at the corners of Bucky's mouth. "They're your friends, too."

Thankfully, before he needed to respond, Friday spoke up.

"Sir," Friday said. "Mr. Hogan has dropped off the items you requested. They are in your room."

"Thanks, Fri," Tony replied. "Good talking to you, but I gotta go. See you around."

He didn't wait for a response. He just brushed by Bucky and headed toward his room. He felt an overwhelming need to escape. He had grown accustomed to being alone. He wasn't used to casual chit chat.

Once he was safely in his room, he relaxed, his breaths coming easier. He glanced over at his dresser. There was a small paper bag sitting on top. He walked over and picked it up, glancing inside—his prescriptions. He groaned and pulled open the drawer. He grabbed what he needed and stuffed them into the bag—not forgetting to grab the pill sorter.

Begrudgingly, he trudged over to the bed and tossed it all down. He took the ice pack and tucked it under his waistband where he'd gotten the injection. Carefully, he settled down onto the bed and dumped out the contents of the bag.

He popped open all the compartments of the pill sorter and then went about the tedious task of divvying everything out. It looked like a box of sad, rejected skittles by the time he was done, all ugly pinks, blues, and whites. He clicked all the compartments closed, satisfied he was done for the next week.

He gathered up his mess and dumped it all back into the dresser drawer, careful not to knock around the sorter too hard. He'd accidently knocked it open before and spilled the contents in a giant mess—not something he wanted to repeat.

He walked back over to the bed and laid down, ice pack on his ass. He groaned into the pillows. The coffee wasn't settling well in his stomach, but he couldn't very well sneak to the kitchen without everyone seeing him.

His ignored his stomach and closed his eyes, letting himself fall asleep. Thankfully he didn't dream—or if he did—he didn't remember it.

What felt like all too soon, Friday's voice was waking him up. He groaned, cursing at his AI.

"Sorry, Boss, but as per protocol, I'm required to wake you to take your medication. Also, your caloric intake is far too low for a male your age. I recommend you eat, or I will need to make a note for Dr. Cho."

Tony rubbed his eyes. "Traitor."

"Should I remind you who programmed me?"

He grumbled. "What time is it?"

"It's 11:32p.m."

His head was pounding. "Ugh. Where is everyone?" He didn't want to leave his room if it meant facing them.

"Everyone but Captain Rogers has retired to their quarters."

"Great, and where is the good Captain?"

"He's in the kitchen drinking hot cocoa."

Tony rolled his eyes. That was so Steve.

He rolled out of bed and grabbed the pill sorter from the drawer, popping open the compartment he needed. He dumped them into his hand and stuffed the sorter back inside. He could swallow them dry, but he had quite a few pills to take at night, and he hated when they got stuck in his throat.

Grasping the pills tightly in his hand, he walked out of his room and toward the kitchen. It was dark; the lights of the compound were all dimmed just enough to see. As he rounded the corner though, he saw that kitchen was well lit, and just like Friday had said, Steve was there at the counter, cup of hot cocoa in his hand, reading a book.

He must have heard Tony coming because he glanced over his shoulder at him. Tony gripped the pills tighter like it would somehow help hide them—hide how broken he was.

"Rogers," Tony said as he walked casually to the fridge. He got himself a bottle of water, twisting off the cap. He took a sip and then turned, walking quickly back towards his room.

"Tony, wait," Steve called after him. "I'm sorry."

Tony froze for a moment. His heart clenching in his chest. He swallowed and turned to look at Steve. He looked tired, the kind of tired that wasn't fixed by sleep. Tony felt bad for him. He knew that feeling all too well.

"Stop saying that. I'm past apologizes. Look, I think we should just stay away from each other," Tony found himself saying. "It's not like this place isn't big enough to avoid each other." He set his water down of the counter.

"What if I don't want to stay away from you?" Steve's tone wasn't his usual. It was softer—more timid. "Maybe I like being around you."

Steve's words make something ache in Tony—bringing back feelings he'd tried hard to bury, to suffocate. He had to remind himself that Steve wasn't his—he never really was.

"Don't." Tony shook his head, putting up a hand. "Just don't, okay? It's better this way. You don't understand. I'm not good for you—hell, I'm not good for anyone. I was selfish before. I thought … It doesn't matter. I won't make that mistake again. Just stay away from me."

"Jesus, Tony," Steve said, setting his cup down. He got up and walked toward him. "Where is this coming from?"

Tony bite at his lip, shaking his head. Nope. He didn't want to have this conversation.

"Talk to me," Steve pleaded.

"It's nothing. Just drop it." His chest felt tight and he pressed his hand to the scar from Steve's shield again, remembering the weight of it as it dug into him. "I just need some sleep. I need to breathe," he said as his heart began to pound. He needed to just take his medication and go bed.

"What's wrong?" Steve looked so fucking concerned it hurt. He shouldn't look that way because of him. "Why was Dr. Cho here?"

"None of your business," he snapped, running his hand through his hair. "You don't have a right to worry about me."

He pushed past Steve, grabbing his abandoned water and popping the pills into his mouth, washing them down quickly with a few gulps. He pressed the cool bottle to his temple, trying to soothe the growing headache behind his eyes. He jumped when he felt a hand touch his back.

"Tony, are you sick?" Steve's voice was softer than he could ever remember it being. It just made that feeling he wanted to forget grow brighter, louder, and he hated that he couldn't control it. It fucking hurt.

"I can't do this," Tony said. "Go to Bucky. He's probably waiting up for you. Just leave me alone."

He expected his words to push the man away, but they didn't. The hand on his back stayed, a gentle weight. It seemed to root his feet in place, keeping him from escaping.

"Just because I have Bucky," Steve said. "Doesn't mean I don't care about you."

Tony shook his head. "You shouldn't. Hate me, anything, but don't care. It would make everything so much easier on everyone if you didn't bother."

The hand on his back seemed moved to his shoulder. "You can't make me stop caring about you."

"That's where you're wrong, Captain. If you knew half of how messed I really am, you'd run for the fucking hills."

"Try me," Steve challenged.

Tony stared him down, gritting his teeth. "Maybe some other time." The fight was beginning to leave him as the Valium kicked in. "I need to get to bed."

He went to walk out the kitchen, but Friday was quick to speak.

"Boss, as per current protocol, I need to remind you to eat or it will be noted and reported."

Steve looked at Tony. "What does that mean?"

"It means my AI has no tact or timing," Tony said. "And is also a huge tattle tale."

"The current protocol was enacted for your own health and—"

"Mute," Tony snapped. "Before you ask, I'm fine. Friday's being dramatic—apple didn't fall far from the tree there. Anyway, I'm going to bed."

He went to leave the kitchen, but a very large, and slightly intimidating, super soldier stepped into his path. "What did Friday mean, your health and what, safety? And don't think I missed you taking that handful of pills, then there's the ice packs. What's going on? We have a right to know as your team, your friends, if you're sick or hurt."

"Trust me. It's not that important. It's nothing new. I'm just usually better at hiding it." Tony rubbed his eyes. "The people who need to know do. Now let me go to bed. I'm tired."

"I want to know," Steve said softly. "I want to help. Just let me make you something to eat. I don't know what's going on, but Friday said you needed to eat, so I'm not leaving you alone until you do."

His stomach ached, his head hurt, his ass cheek was throbbing, and even though he wanted to argue, he felt like shit, so he found himself nodding and climbing onto one the stools at the counter.

"Anything you want in particular? There's eggs," Steve said, opening the fridge.

"That's fine," Tony replied, resting his head on the cool marble countertop, hoping it would soothe the ache.

He listened to Steve puttering away as he cooked. He'd started drifting off when a plate was nudged against his arm.

"Eat up."

Tony groaned and stretched, wincing when he shifted wrong and the chair pushed against the sore lump. Maybe next time he'd opt for the arm.

"You okay? Seems painful." Steve was leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

Tony picked up his fork and poked at the pile scrambled eggs. "Little sore."

Steve nodded. "You wanna tell me about it."

"Not really." He wanted to though. He wished he could. He missed people—despite the fact he spent most of his energy pushing them away.

Tony pushed the eggs around the plate. Nothing seemed to have flavor. It wasn't Steve's cooking. It was just him. He felt numb.

"They'll taste better warm," Steve said. "Push them around all you want, but I am not leaving you until I see you eat some."

Tony sighed. He didn't know what black hole he'd fallen into, but this was pretty messed up. He didn't expect to have Steve cooking him eggs at nearly midnight and hovering like a mother hen.

He took a small bite, chewed, and then swallowed mechanically, repeating until they were mostly gone, then pushed his plate away. His stomach felt a little better. He was dizzy though. The meds were meant to be taken close to bed as they knocked him out.

"Thanks," Tony said, blinking tiredly. He was feeling out of it. "I'm gonna go to bed. You should, too."

He pushed himself from the stool, grabbing the counter to steady himself. He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness hit him. He heard Steve walk closer and then a hand was on his shoulder.

"Come on, let me help you get to bed."

If Tony had felt better, less like he was gonna greet the floor face first, he might have had protested or pulled away, but at that moment, he only wanted the room to stop spinning. Steve's strong arm slipped around him, pulling him against his solid body. He kept him steady as they walked.

"I don't know what's going on with you," Steve said. "But I'm not leaving you to handle whatever this is alone. I'm here for you, Tony, whether you like it or not. We all are."

Tony opened his mouth to argue but decided against it. Instead, he let the larger man guide him to his bedroom. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he liked the closeness. It had been a long time since he was close to anyone. He missed feeling the warmth of another person. He missed Steve.

He just grumbled when Steve gently nudged him down into the bed. Giving in, he crawled under the covers and tried to not think how pathetic he must look. He didn't even hear Steve leave before he fell asleep.

Tony awoke the next morning to someone shaking him by the shoulder. His head was pounding, and he felt hungover.

"Come on, Tones," the voice said. "Time to wake up."

He knew that voice. It took him a minute, but he pried his eyes open and blinked wearily at the man sitting beside him on the bed.

"Hey, Rhodey Bear." Tony cleared his throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure? I've been a good boy, promise, scout's honor."

"Did you forget that you initiated the Marbles Protocol? Pepper and I both get notified when that happens. What's going on, Tones? Talk to me."

Tony sighed. There was a lot going on, but nothing that he wanted to talk to anyone about. "I'm not going to off myself if that's what you're worried about. My tank's just running a bit low."

Rhodey nodded. "I spoke to Dr. Cho. She's concerned. She said you've lost weight again. You're off your meds."

Tony raised a finger to object. "Was," he said. "I started them back up."

Rhodey nodded. "You know what I think? I think having the team back might be too much for you right now."

Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. It was too early for this shit. He shifted, getting himself propped up against the headboard. "It's not their fault. It's just me, Rhodey," Tony said. "The meds make me feel like shit, and the team only knows the fake me—the medicated me. They don't know what a fucking mess I am. I just so tired—tired of everything."

"Tony," Rhodey said. "The medication doesn't make you someone else. They help you from getting like this, getting depressed. Is that why you keep going off them?"

Tony shrugged. "Yeah, that and sometimes I'll start feeling better and I feel I don't need them anymore, and maybe sometimes I miss the mania. I know, you don't need to lecture me. Mania is not my friend."

Rhodey let out a breath. "So, how are things going with the team being back?"

"I don't know," Tony said. "Weird. Steve and Bucky already seem to notice something's up."

"Have you thought about opening up to the team a little?"

"Are you serious?" Tony snapped. "They would never look at me the same way if they knew."

"It was just a suggestion. We both know they're nosey fuckers, and if you're gonna have them here long term, I think you should talk to them. There's nothing wrong with having a mental illness—not something to be ashamed about."

"Could you just stop that?" Tony said asked. "Stop saying it like that—stop saying I have something wrong with me!"

"There's nothing wrong being bipolar or having PTSD," Rhodey said. "Why does it bother you so much to hear?"

Tony looked away. He knew exactly why it bothered him. His father who had beaten it into him—that it wasn't okay to be sick. It was a weakness—something he needed to hide at all costs.

"Tones?"

He looked to Rhodey. "It was Howard. He made it clear that Stark men aren't like that—Stark men aren't weak."

"Shit, Tony." Rhodey ran a hand over his face. "I knew he had some rough edges, but I didn't realize. You got to know how wrong he was. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know in a way, but then at the same time, I can still hear him in my head. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up. What can I say?"

"Say you'll stop calling yourself fucked up. Say you'll try to see the good in yourself," Rhodey said. "You are really hard on yourself. You need to stop thinking you are alone in this."

Tony huffed. "Yeah, I'll work on it. Now, can I get out of bed?"

Rhodey chuckled. "Let's go."

Tony sighed and climbed from the bed. He should take a shower, but he felt like shit and it sounded like way too many steps. He didn't even bother looking at himself in the mirror.

"Come on, Tones," Rhodey said. "Grab your meds and let's go get some food into you. You look like walking skeleton. It's no wonder Dr. Cho wanted tabs on you."

Tony grumbled his annoyance but did as he was told. He put them in the pocket of his hoodie and followed Rhodey toward the kitchen.

The team was thankfully nowhere to be seen. Tony walked to the coffee maker and grabbed a cup, pouring himself a coffee. He reached in his pocket, grabbing the pills and downing them quickly with the hot liquid.

"Do I need to make you something or can you find something on your own?" Rhodey asked.

"I'm not a child." Tony walked over to the cupboard and dug around. There was more food. Someone must have gone shopping. He found a box of cereal and grabbed it, then snatched a bowl from the cabinet. He shook the cereal out into his bowl, making a mess on the counter but not really caring. He still felt tired—like an endless tired that no sleep could fix. He grabbed the milk and sloshed it in. Fishing a spoon from the drawer, he went to the breakfast bar to eat.

The lump from the injection made itself known when he sat. He winced.

"The injections still hurting?" Rhodey asked.

Tony just nodded. "Cho said if it keeps happening then we get to try something else."

Rhodey sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't need pity—brought it on myself."

Rhodey pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."

"I try." Tony smirked.

Footsteps grew closer and Tony looked up, glancing back over his shoulder. He tensed. Steve and Bucky were walking toward him with Clint trailing behind. Perfect.

Tony went to get up, to escape, but Rhodey wasn't letting it happen. He moved to Tony's side and put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from standing.

"Hey guys, how was training?" Rhodey asked as Tony curled his shoulders in, trying to disappear in his oversized hoodie.

"Great," Clint said. "It's good to be home." The archer took a seat a few down from him. "No offense, Stark, but you look like shit." Clint frowned at him. "Aren't those the same clothes you were in yesterday?"

The sarcastic, witty Tony was still on vacation somewhere in his mind, so he just shrugged and went back to eating. He tried to hide the tremors in his hands, but his spoon still shook. He could feel Hawkeye watching him.

"Thanks for the arrows, and you know, for everything else," Clint said. "Didn't get much of a chance to say anything to you when we first got back. You kinda took off."

He knew Clint was trying to edge him into a conversation, but Tony didn't want to talk. It was nothing against the archer. He just didn't want to talk to anyone. Needing to put some distance between himself and the reminders of the past, he pushed his bowl of cereal away and rubbed his eyes.

"Glad you liked the arrows," he said, getting up. "You guys must be hungry from training, so I'm gonna get out of the way." He looked to Rhodey. "I assume you'll be staying a few days."

Rhodey nodded, sipping his coffee. "You know it."

Tony got up and walked over to the fridge, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer. He wasn't feeling inventive, and the idea of going to the workshop and facing the mess he'd created there was depressing, so he turned and padded back towards his bedroom.