4: Tony welcomes Bruce home, drunk off of his ass and being an ass.

A/N:I have to apologize. I think I have thoroughly established that I am nothing if not a lazy writer, prone to long periods of real life and frequent bouts of unreliability. For that reason, I will no longer post anything until it is completely finished. This is all written, but still unbeta'd. I'll post one chapter each day until it's all up there.

Also, I totally did not mean for this to go this direction. I was aiming for a mildly-angsty, mostly humorous exploration of Tony's character and his relationship with Pepper. But it took a very sharp left somewhere into emotionally-whump-Tony-as-much-as-possible territory. Not my intention, I swear! I blame Tony's self-destructive tendencies, just because I can. I'm also changing this one to an M rating with this chapter, mostly for the language. I read over what I've posted, realized how much they're cussing, realized how much MORE they're cussing in what I'm writing now, and figured better safe than sorry. Just because the boys (and I ^-^) have mouths like sailors doesn't mean everyone else does!

WARNING: Mild and short description of violence against children in this one.

Sir?

"Not now, J," Tony downed his third glass of Thor's ale and filled a fourth.

Sir, I feel the need to warn you that the alcohol content of that ale is much higher than—

"I said, not now J. I'm fine. Now leave me alone."

But Sir—

"Mute all."

Tony downed the fourth glass of ale and contemplated a fifth. The ominous churning in his gut recommended against it, though. He set the empty glass on the bar and headed for the couch. The step down from the bar area to the seating area turned into a stumble, then into something that probably looked like a freshman prom dance move, then he was on his ass on the floor. Maybe J was right, maybe the ale had been a bad idea.

He squeezed his eyes shut and dug the heels of his hands in, then abruptly opened them again when the movie started. The same movie that played every time he closed his eyes. Bodies, flying through the air, none of them more than four feet high and most of them grotesquely incomplete. There was no sound to it, but he'd been there. The sounds that went along with the images were ones that he'd never forget, no matter how much he drank. They were drilled into his brain, and the soundtrack ran itself constantly without his consent.

He'd been almost there; just another five seconds and he'd have found the bomb. Three more seconds to reach it, then another two to fly it to the minimum safe distance. Five seconds faster and eight kids would still be alive. The bitch of it was, though, he would have found it in time if he hadn't stopped between bombs six and seven to check on Pepper.

The sixth bomb had been close to her office, far too close for his comfort. He'd stopped searching, just for a second, to buzz past her window and see her. To see with his own eyes that she was safe. It had added 5.782 seconds to his flight time. He'd done the math. Repeatedly. No matter how he crunched it, though, it didn't change. He'd needed five seconds more to save those kids and he'd spent almost six to check on his girlfriend instead.

He'd built the first Iron Man suit to save his life and (he'd hoped) Yinsen's. But of course he'd failed Yinsen, too. That had also only been a matter of seconds. Seconds faster in booting the system up and Yinsen would probably still be alive, seconds faster in flying and those kids would still be alive. Just seconds, but he'd been too busy being selfish. Too busy having a life outside of the superhero gig.

And that was the real bitch of it, wasn't it? He was trying to be both Iron Man and Tony Stark, and he just wasn't strong enough for both.

Tony braced his hands on the floor and pushed himself slowly to his knees. He stopped a moment to watch the room spin lazily around him, then began the long (only six feet, but it looked like a mile) crawl to the couch. Yeah, the ale had definitely been a bad idea. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten and had a vague memory of pancakes, but that had been yesterday, he thought, or maybe the day before. Maybe.

He reached the couch, decided climbing onto it was simply too much effort, and pulled a pillow down. He laid himself on the floor facing the giant picture window and wondered how much effort it would take to crawl over the edge.

/*\_/*\_/*\

Bruce dropped his bag inside the door and sighed. He stretched, hands in the small of his back, and groaned out loud when he felt every vertebrae pop. He enjoyed the mission work, he really did, but living in Tony's tower had made him soft and a woven mat on a dirt floor no longer made an adequate bed. That, or he was getting old. He ruffled a hand through his hair, looking in the entryway mirror as he did so. No appreciable increase in grey, so he was totally going to go with the soft living theory.

He kicked the bag to the side, resolving to unpack it later. Much later, after a hot shower and at least six hours of sleep in a nice soft bed. Moving into his room and stripping as he went he called out to JARVIS, but there was no response. That was odd, but not unheard of; Tony had taken him offline a few times before for maintenance and upgrades. Stepping into the shower, Bruce resolved to find and check on the other members of the team after his nap. If nobody knew he was back yet, nobody would wake him up.

/*\_/*\_/*\

It turned out that he didn't get quite the nap he'd hoped for after all. His internal clock told him that he'd only been out for about three hours when his name being called dragged him out of sleep.

Dr. Banner. Dr. Banner, please wake up. Master Stark is in dire need of assistance.

"Wha-? JARVIS? What's going on?" He was up and decently dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt before he'd finished waking; years of being on the run had made him a light sleeper and a fast starter.

Master Stark is in the common room. He has ingested far too much alcohol and is now suffering the effects.

"A hangover? He's had a hangover at least twice a week since I've known him," Bruce was confused, but already on his feet and moving toward the common room

No. I'm afraid this is more serious than that. Master Stark is unconscious and his heart rate and breathing patterns have begun to slow to dangerous levels. He also appears to have vomited in his sleep.

"What?!" now Bruce was worried, and running.

Dr. Banner, please hurry.

"Is there anyone else in the Tower?"

Prince Odinson and Captain Rodgers are in the gym. I have already notified them and they are en route.

Bruce reached the door to the common room and skidded in. At first, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. It wasn't until he rounded the edge of the seating area that he saw Tony stretched out on the floor. He had indeed vomited, but luckily he was on his side and the pillow that he had apparently laid his head on kept him elevated enough that he hadn't choked. Bruce knelt in front of Tony, careful to keep his bare knees out of the mess, and felt for a pulse. Definitely slow, as was his breathing. His skin was clammy as well, and the blue tinge to his lips indicated cyanosis.

"JARVIS, why didn't you say something sooner?"

Master Stark did not appreciate my objections to his excessive drinking. He muted me, the AI's voice somehow managed to be reproachful and worried at the same time. I was only able to override the command when his vitals dropped below an acceptable level. It is a safeguard Ms. Potts encouraged Master Stark to install when she found him unconscious on the floor of his workroom after electrocuting himself.

Bruce snorted a little despite himself. He could picture Pepper 'encouraging' Tony after a fright like that. "Where are Thor and Steve now?"

Before the butler could answer, the two men thundered into the room; literally, in Thor's case. Bruce wasn't sure what JARVIS had told them, but the god was visibly upset and thunder growled through the steadily darkening sky outside, mirroring his mood.

"Bruce, JARVIS said you were back. What's wrong? What happened to Tony?" Steve ran around the couch and crouched next to Bruce. His hands hovered over Tony's inert form, as if he wasn't sure where to touch or what to do.

"It looks like he's managed to give himself alcohol poisoning. I need to get him down to medical."

"I shall carry him there," Thor's voice was as subdued as Bruce had ever heard. The two men moved out of his way and Thor gathered Tony into his arms, lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

Bruce kept pace with him to the elevator, his fingers on Tony's pulse point. The trip to medical was quiet. Bruce was too absorbed in organizing a treatment plan to pay much attention to Steve or Thor. He noticed the guilty looks they were trading but immediately shuffled the knowledge to the back of his mind to be dealt with later.

Thor carried Tony into the medical wing and laid him on a bed. Bruce kicked them both out and went to work; the room was not large and neither Steve nor Thor fit very well in a corner.

/*\_/*\_/*\

After he had stabilized Tony Bruce went out into the hall where the other two men waited, pacing.

"How is he?" Steve asked, stopping in front of him.

Bruce sighed and crossed his arms. "It was definitely alcohol poisoning. I've got him on an IV to prevent dehydration and I've given him Thiamin and Glucose. He's also severely dehydrated and flirting with malnourishment. We'll need to watch for possible seizures but he should be fine in a day or two. I want to know how it got this far, though." Bruce tried to keep the accusation out of his face and posture, but by the look on Steve's face he wasn't sure if he'd succeeded.

"Now wait a minute," Steve said, taking a step forward and violating Bruce's personal space. "Tony's a grown man and I'm not responsible for how much he drinks."

"But you were here and you could have stopped him. You could have hidden the alcohol, or at least make sure he ate something to counteract it." Bruce clenched his hands into fists, feeling the anger growing in his chest. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, but when he opened them the world was still tinted ever so slightly green.

Steve, to his credit, stood his ground, though he did lower his voice to something more suitable for talking down a suicide that for the argument that Bruce desperately wanted to have right now. "I tried. You could have been here to help."

"I am afraid that we must all shoulder some blame for our friend's condition," Thor laid a hand on both men's shoulders and stepped forward so he was half between them, forcing them both to back up a step. "It is I who brought the ale that he used to poison himself." Bruce tensed and Thor's fingers dug into his shoulder a bit in silent reprimand. "Tony feels a great responsibility for our last battle, and I do not think that we—any of us—have treated him as friends should in his time of need."

Bruce hung his head, guilt and shame flooding through him to replace the anger. He had been ready to blame Steve for Tony's condition, but it was as much Bruce's fault as anyone's. "You're right, Thor. I shouldn't have taken off like that; I should have stayed here and tried to talk to him. I'm sorry, Steve," he apologized to the younger man.

Steve looked down, not meeting Bruce's eyes. "I probably could have tried harder to get him to talk, too."

"Well," Bruce stood straight, brushing his hands together as if to clean them. "What's done is done, we'll just have to try harder now. He'll be sleeping for a few hours yet; I may or may not have slipped him a sedative."

Steve grinned. "Good. He needs it. I don't think he's been sleeping well, if at all, for the past week. Clint and Natasha are due back this afternoon; maybe we should plan a team night in?"

"Good idea. You two go ahead back to the gym, I'm going to sit with Tony for a while."

Steve and Thor nodded and left, Thor giving Bruce's shoulder a gentler, friendly squeeze before they did so. Bruce went back into the room and pulled a chair up next to Tony's bed. The man looked truly awful. His face was pale and decidedly thinner than it had been when Bruce had left and his trademark goatee had degenerated into a scruffy beard. A sudden wave of guilt bowed his head. Thor was right; he'd abandoned a friend. Bruce hadn't even been there during that mission; he'd been buried under the Other Guy and could only remember snatches of the fighting. If he was being honest with himself, he hadn't tried very hard to remember. Once he'd stopped fighting the Other Guy and begun to accept him, Bruce realized that he protected him from more than just physical harm. If he tried, he could remember quite a bit of what the Other Guy did and experienced, but if it was bad enough he could very easily leave the memories buried under the green haze.

This one had been horrific enough that he hadn't even tried. He'd just run, straight to the jungles and away from anything that could hurt. Only this time he'd left friends behind to pick up the pieces that he couldn't stand to face.

He reached out and squeezed Tony's hand, resolving to himself to make sure this time he stuck around.

/*\_/*\_/*\

Again Bruce was awakened by his name being called, but this time he was not in his soft, comfortable bed. He raised his head, sitting up and grimacing when his back protested. He blinked blearily for a moment, trying to remember where he was. A rough laugh came from his left. Oh, right, medical.

Tony was sitting up in bed, Starkphone in hand. He was, well, snickering.

"What's so funny?" Bruce asked, a bit grumpy from the interrupted sleep.

"You. You snore. And drool."

"I do not!" Bruce wiped a hand across his stubbled jaw. Ew. He tried to wipe his hand surreptitiously against his shorts but Tony's renewed laughter told him that he'd failed.

"Yup. There was definite drooling going on. And those blanket lines on your face are actually rather fetching, Dr. Banner. I'm sure our fans are going to love the pics."

Bruce made a grab for the phone, concerned but not surprised when Tony wasn't quick enough to stop him. He started tapping the screen, deleting the twenty or so pictures that Tony had taken of him sleeping.

"Too late!" Tony stole the phone back from him. "I don't know if you've heard of it, but there's this remarkable thing called Wi-Fi; it connects to this other really handy thing called the internet. I'm sure you don't get service in the ass crack of nowhere, but I've got excellent signal here."

Bruce stopped trying to take the phone back and sighed. "Tony, we need to talk."

"No. No, we really don't," the smile disappeared from Tony's face and he started pulling tape off of the IV line.

"What are you doing?" Bruce pulled his hand away from the tubing. "You still need that. It's staying in for at least the next twelve hours."

"I'm leaving. This bed sucks and I'm bored."

"You can get up, but only if you go to your bed and straight back to sleep. Clint and Natasha should be back in a few hours; Steve wants to order in and watch a movie tonight." Tony gave him a mutinous look and Bruce reached for a syringe that he had laid strategically near the bed earlier. "Or I could just sedate you into next week and put in a feeding tube."

Tony's face dissolved into a pout that absolutely did not affect Bruce. Not at all. He was an adult and

Tony's doctor (sort of) and not subject to such blatant manipulation. He was—oh hell. "Fine," he sighed at the triumphant smile Tony flashed him. "Couch."

"Lab?"

"Couch."

"Kitchen?"

"Couch and TV tray."

"You, my man, are one hell of a negotiator. Has anyone ever told you that? You want to come to the next board meeting? You could show the sycophants a thing or two about effective negotiation tactics. You can even bring the big needles, for, you know, instructional aids and whatnot." Tony swung his legs out of bed and stood; Bruce caught him when he sagged and nearly kissed the floor.

He waited patiently for Tony's blood pressure to stabilize before asking, "Still want to go to the lab?"

Tony cleared his throat. "Nope. Couch, couch sounds good."

Bruce laughed gently and pushed him back down onto the bed. "Sit, stay. I'll grab you some pants." He went to the closet in the corner and pulled out a shirt and sweats, dropping them in Tony's lap and sitting back down in his chair.

"Why am I only wearing boxers? What happened to my clothes?"

"You vomited all over them," Bruce raised an eyebrow and fought unsuccessfully to keep the disapproval from his face. Tony had scared him—them—and badly.

"Oh. Well, then," Tony looked down at the clothes in his lap, unable or unwilling to meet Bruce's eyes. "Umm . . . a little privacy, maybe?"

"Sure, when you can stand on your own." Tony glared at him, but there was no heat in it. He was still pale and shaking, he had to feel awful. Bruce felt a little bad for cornering him when he wasn't able to run away, but according to Steve Tony had been making a very bad habit of running from this conversation.

He watched Tony struggle with the pants for a moment before huffing a sigh and taking them from him. "Here, let me help." He bent to his knees and held the pants out for Tony to thread his feet into. Keeping his face carefully averted, he began, "Steve says that you won't talk to him, you won't talk to Pepper—"

"Stop," Tony said, grabbing Bruce's shoulder for balance and squeezing a bit harder than was necessary. "Just stop. I don't want to talk about it, I don't need to talk about it, I don't want to fucking think about it. So just stop."

Bruce stood and met the billionaire's haunted eyes. "Tony, you know you do need to talk about it," he held up a hand to forestall the outburst he saw lurking behind Tony's brown eyes. "But I won't push. Not right now. I just want you to know that I'm sorrier than I can ever say about leaving like I did, about not seeing how badly this was affecting you. And that when you realize that you have to get it off of your chest, I'll be here to listen."

"Fine. Thanks. Can we get moving now?" The response was clipped, closed off. Bruce was disappointed, until he heard the almost inaudibly whispered thanks. He didn't acknowledge it, taking the fragile overture for what it was; the first tiny crack in the armor that Tony had built up around himself, the armor under whose weight he was slowly being crushed.

He helped Tony to the couch, setting him up with a blanket and an improvised lamp/IV stand. He left for the kitchen to make a late lunch for them both, listening as Tony tried to apologize to an obviously angry JARVIS.

/*\_/*\_/*\

Clint and Natasha had gotten home and the Avengers were all gathered in the common room around a movie and a mountain of Chinese takeout when Pepper returned late that evening. She walked into the room and was struck by the unnatural quiet. Normally, movie night consisted of arguments about what to watch, which actors were right in the roles and which ones sucked, nitpicking about action scenes and the quality of the special effects, and copious amounts of flying popcorn and the complaints/retaliation of those struck by the fluffy flying missiles. Not tonight. Tonight the lights were dimmed and the only sound was coming from the screen.

Steve sat in the armchair closest to the door, posture straight as always, with a nearly untouched bowl of buttered popcorn in his lap. She leaned a hip against the edge of his chair and took off her heels, stealing a handful of popcorn and returning his quiet hello. Clint and Natasha were curled together on the couch next to Steve's chair. They appeared to be completely engrossed in the movie, but she had felt their attention focus on her the moment she had stepped in. Living with highly trained assassins tended to teach one to notice those things. Thor sat in the floor in front of them, trying to watch her covertly and failing miserably. She could see Bruce's head over the back of the remaining couch, but Tony was nowhere to be found. Until she moved further into the room, that is.

She leaned over the back of the other couch to find Tony laid out opposite Bruce, his feet in the other man's lap. He was fast asleep, and at first Pepper smiled to see him so relaxed. Then she saw the IV.

She had felt Bruce tense as soon as she leaned over the couch, and when her eyes fell on the IV she heard Steve sliding quietly out of the room. She turned to look behind her and found that Clint and Natasha had left without her hearing. Thor was still sitting on the floor, giving her a deer-in-the-headlights look. She turned around to find Bruce looking at her apprehensively and felt her mouth stretch into what Tony had labeled her 'DEFCON 4' smile.

"Bruce," she said, keeping her voice deliberately soft, "welcome home. Could you please explain to me why Tony has an IV?"

"Umm . . . ," he slid to the extreme opposite of the couch and out of reach, dumping Tony's feet gently from his lap. Tony didn't stir. "He may have, possibly, drank a little bit too much?"

"Elaborate, please." She heard Thor escape and Bruce darted a quick glare at the doorway before sighing and slumping.

"I got back late this morning. I sort of snuck in; I was hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before anyone knew I was here." He took off his glasses and began polishing them on the hem of his shirt, a nervous tic that she had seen him use often. "JARVIS didn't answer me, but I figured Tony was just running some upgrades. I went to bed and woke a few hours later to JARVIS telling me that Tony was passed out in the common room."

"And," she prompted, feeling her temper fray.

"Alcohol poisoning," Bruce looked up at her gasp and placed a hand over hers, giving it a quick squeeze. "Don't worry," he said, "we caught it in time. He'll be fine. Provided, that is, we can get him to stop drinking so much and to eat some actual food," he gestured at the mostly full plate on the tray next to Tony's head with his free hand. "I'm so sorry, Pepper. I should have stayed here and helped him through this. I'm not used to having people that need me."

"No," Pepper sighed and squeezed Bruce's hand back, "you are not to blame for this. I've been feeling so guilty for not being able to help him and so has Steve, but we're not to blame for it, either. We can only support Tony so much. At some point he's going to have to learn to help himself."

"You know that this is a problem, right?" Bruce asked softly.

"Yes," she crossed to the front of the couch and sat between Bruce and Tony's feet, leaning against Bruce when he put an arm around her. "I know. He was doing so well, though. He'd cut back on the drinking and was actually eating more meals that he skipped. It's just, this last mission . . . . He hasn't been this bad since Afghanistan. He won't tell me what's wrong, Bruce. I mean, I know that watching that, the kids, not being able to stop it . . . ," she trailed off and buried her face in Bruce's shoulder, trying to hide the tears that she couldn't seem to stop.

He tightened his arm, squeezing her in a half hug. "Tony is one of the strongest people I know, but he leads a very highly stressful life. We can be—we are—here for him, but we have got to get him to realize that. We have to get him to talk about what's bothering him or he'll just keep trying to drink it away. I am sorry for leaving so abruptly, for leaving you and Steve alone to try and get him to open up. But I'm here now, and Thor, Clint, and Natasha are back, and we're none of us going anywhere until we get him to open up."

"Thanks," she raised her head and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "If you don't mind, though, I'd like to just lie down with him for a while now."

"Sure," Bruce stood, draping a blanket over her shoulders before leaving.

Pepper moved the tray away from Tony's head and lay down on the couch, squeezing herself between Tony and the cushions and covering them both with the blanket.

"JARVIS, mute the television for me, please."

Of course, Ms. Potts.

She didn't know how long she lay there, stroking a finger along Tony's rough jaw, watching him sleep in the flickering light from the screen. The movie had long since ended and she'd almost fallen asleep herself when he finally stirred. He turned his head toward her, pressing their foreheads together before opening tired brown eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Stark," she said, kissing him softly on the lips.

"Mmmm," he blinked lazily at her.

"Did you have a nice nap?"

"Yeah," he cleared his throat and turned his body so they were lying face to face. "When did you get home?"

"I don't know, an hour or so ago." She hesitated. Lying here together was so nice, and he'd been so distant lately, that she didn't want to bring up what Bruce had told her, didn't want to break the spell. She took a deep breath; this had to be done. "Bruce told me what happened today."

Tony stiffened and pulled away from her, moving to the very edge of the couch. She tightened her arms around him before he could completely escape.

"Tony, please, this is killing you. Why won't you just talk to me about it?"

He rolled to his back and began removing the IV tape. "Pep, I . . . I just can't. I can't tell you. Can we please just leave it at that?"

"I would, Tony, I really would, if it weren't obviously affecting you so badly. I know that there will be parts of your life that I'll never understand and never be a part of," she placed a finger on his lips when he turned to argue. "No, I know it, and I accept it. I'm so proud of you, but it makes me a wreck worrying about you. I can't stand by and ignore this. You're making yourself sick over it Tony. I can't ignore that."

Tony dropped the IV line and sat, finger clamped over the hole left in the back of his hand. Pepper sat up behind him and draped herself across his back, still warm from sleep. She wrapped her arms around him and held on while he shook. He wasn't crying, not exactly, but he wasn't far from it.

Finally, with a sigh, he gently removed her hands and stood. Without turning, he said goodnight and left the room. Pepper stayed where she was, the tears that he hadn't shed running down her face.

When she had composed herself, she went to join Tony in bed, hoping that things would be better in the morning. She found him, not in their bed but in a guest room. The door was locked. She knocked, but at a polite request from JARVIS she turned and left.

That night she cried herself to sleep in their shared bed. Alone.

A/N: This makes me sad. Poor Tony. I am a very, very bad person.