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The reporter is laughing, "Fantastic, fantastic. Now, there have been rumours of a certain engagement. Care to elaborate, Miss Potts?"
She smiles warmly into the camera, and says only, "No comment," as the man beside her slips his arm round her waist, their faces a picture of pure contentment and serenity. He is clearly besotted with her, but not in that smothering, overpowering way.
In that perfectly, hideously content way.
Tony's first thought is, she looks really happy.
Tony's next thought is, she looks happier with someone that isn't me.
The remote sails into the wall by the TV screen, batteries flying in opposite directions as the back panel snaps free.
Tony vaguely hears the newsreader cut to the next story, but his mind is already elsewhere, curling in on itself, small and foetal, for protection. The familiar dull ache of inextricable rage and sadness is building in his chest, and Tony mutters the command to turn off the TV.
He doesn't know what he expected to happen after their dysfunctional relationship dissolved, if he's honest. He never gave it a moment's conscious thought because it was too painful. His failure was painful, and that's what it was, if he allows himself to admit it. A colossal, staggering, cataclysmic failure. After Pepper turned up unannounced at his lab, Tony had thought distantly that, maybe, she wanted to salvage their relationship. Frankly, he doesn't know if he wants that or not, but what he does know is that he still wants Pepper in his life. He needs her. Even if it's just as an anchor, selfish as that may be, to keep him grounded. No one can curb his wild outbursts, calm his rages, and tame his impulsive behaviour as well as Pepper can. No one keeps him in check like she does.
Somewhat surprisingly, now, when Tony thinks of her in that way - as his rock, his safety mechanism - Steve also comes to mind. Apparently, he has begun to associate the captain with the same behaviours. Steve's manner is calm too, and he has been known to soothe Tony's rages just as well as Pepper, if not better. Perhaps for lack of complicated history or "unprofessional" involvement, maybe, but Tony doesn't think about that. These days Steve is just as much his rock as Pepper is, or perhaps, it dawns on him, was.
He recalls the look on Steve's face as he stormed out of the lab three days ago to vanish again. This time, however, Tony knows where he has disappeared off to. He'd had Jarvis place a tracker on Steve's motorcycle as soon as it had re-entered the parking bay that particular morning, anchored discretely under the bodywork, because quite honestly, he'll be damned if he lets the captain just disappear on him like that again.
This sudden possessiveness he is feeling over Steve is rather alien to him, not because he isn't a possessive man (he most certainly is), but because he has never in his life been possessive of another person, with the exception of Pepper Potts. Things, yes. People, never.
As Tony stares at the black TV screen, the image of Pepper and that new guy burned into his retinas, sharp tendrils of rage and sadness coil up and claw at him. Shards of pain dig deep into places he could never reach to pull them out. They ache, and the dull roar of it seems to stretch on endlessly into a resigned numbness that he knows he will have to carry with him. Yet more baggage to trip him up, to weigh him down and drown him. He needs Pepper, and yes, it is selfish, but he can't bring himself to care, or be sorry about it. Who the hell is this guy to take her from him?
How has she moved on so easily, while he still can't face his own feelings long enough to get a handle on what they actually are?
Tony's fingers twitch around his whiskey glass. His own reflection ripples mockingly back up at him from the depths of the amber liquid.
They can go to hell, he thinks bitterly, acidic rage curdling in his stomach, and he empties the glass into his mouth, grateful for the familiar trail of fire it leaves as it burns its way down his throat.
The sudden, uncontrollable urge to smash something into a thousand tiny pieces grips him, and he wonders vaguely if this is how Bruce feels just before he loses it. The anger sears though him, simmering hotly in his gut, and it takes a lot to place the glass calmly back on the tray by his elbow. The vein in his temple is thrumming, and as a writhing mass of emotion swells in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him and drag him out to sea, Tony makes a decision.
It's time to go and do what Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, does best. He is going to shut down, to drown his thoughts in an ocean of women and whiskey, burying himself in a cocoon of alcohol and tangled bed sheets, drinking himself to sweet oblivion, entwined in the arms and legs of a beautiful woman. Or three.
He desperately needs to be numb to the world and everything in it.
"Jarvis?"
"Sir?"
"Cancel my plans for the next week, clear my schedule. I don't care what excuses you have to make. And disable the comms. No one gets through; not SHIELD, no personal numbers, nothing. If anyone asks where I am, I'm anywhere but here."
"Sir." The AI is smart enough not to argue, and Tony has to laugh at that.
Tony's final thought is, I need another fucking drink.
- Two weeks later -
Steve slams open Tony's bedroom door to find the billionaire tied to the bed with his own trousers, being straddled by a very curvaceous redhead who is wearing, or – more accurately – not wearing, an item of clothing that Steve doesn't have the vocabulary to describe.
His mouth flaps open and closed, eyes rapidly blinking from Tony to the woman, before he decides he'd rather be looking at the ceiling instead. He clears his throat loudly and folds his arms over his chest.
"Tony? If it's not too, uh inconvenient? I need to talk to you. Now."
And there was the voice of Captain America, all stern commanding authority and words lined with steel. Tony's exasperated sigh was heard clearly across the room.
"Sweetheart, be a good girl and untie me would you? Tony needs to talk to the big angry soldier man."
The redhead smiles wickedly, and although Steve is fairly sure he sees her consider refusing, she does as she's told.
Hands free, Tony rubs at his wrists, and with a "Run along, I'm sure this won't take long," he shoos her away. She hops from the bed and glides past Steve, all bright eyes glinting with mischief and lithe, supple limbs. Steve swallows the lump in his throat, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he is unable to hide the blush bleeding into his cheeks, or disguise the noise of distress that escapes him as she brushes far too close.
Tony catches it, and laughs unkindly. "Don't start without me," he calls after her. She winks at him and slips through the door. Tony fixes Steve with a glare that the soldier can't see, because his virgin eyes are still glued to the ceiling lights, protecting his modesty.
Tony grabs the pants that were so recently securing his wrists to the bed posts and drags them up over his hips, lazily rolling the ache from his shoulders and scouring the room for his whiskey bottle. He's only half drunk right now, and that's a major improvement from an hour ago.
Steve suddenly makes a loud, angry noise and stalks out of the room.
Knowing he's probably got a stern talking-to coming on, the likes of which only Steve Rogers is truly capable of delivering, Tony groans inwardly. He is quite definitely not in the mood for this; he is far too much a sickly mixture of still-drunk and slipping slowly (but surely) into hung over to form anything like a coherent argument, and he decides that no, like hell is he putting up with Steve's soldier bullshit today. Not a chance.
…
It is glaringly obvious from the way he is standing with his arms folded over his suit that Steve Rogers is very, very angry. Tony slopes reluctantly into the living room behind him, and props himself up against the wall, unable to summon the will to care, whiskey glass firmly in hand. Steve looks pointedly at it, judgement clear in his eyes.
With carefully controlled emotion, Steve asks, "Tony, what exactly are you doing?"
Tony rolls his eyes, exasperated and angry. Why does he always have to explain himself to these people? Why can't they just leave him the fuck alone to drink himself stupid and wallow in misery?
"If this is about that woman? Then I have to tell you that who I sleep with is none of your God damn business."
That earns a snort. Great, disdain. Because God knows he hasn't experienced enough of that.
"No, Tony, it isn't about that, although I would be lying if I said I wasn't," Steve clears his throat, "concerned?"
A different tone enters his voice, his eyes questioning, "Where the hell have you been, Tony? We haven't seen or heard from you in two weeks. You didn't respond to the alert earlier, and thank God we didn't need Iron Man, because if we had? You would have been in no fit state to help anyone." His eyebrows knit together, "Look at you, Tony, are you drunk? It's 11am!"
Tony slams his glass down on the counter beside him, "Rogers, quite frankly? You can take your judgement, and just fuck off. I'm not hurting anyone but myself, okay? It's none of your fucking business, so stop trying to get involved. I am not going to explain myself to you."
Steve barks a laugh, "Oh, it's none of my business, huh? Tony, you make it my business when you put the team at risk with your stupidity. You're an Avenger, and you need to start taking that responsibility one hell of a lot more seriously."
Tony throws his hands up, "What in the hell are you talking about, Rogers? I'm not putting anybody at risk. I'm actually trying to get on with drinking myself blind, and you come barging in here uninvited! In fact, Jarvis? Why did you let the gleaming pillar of patriotism into my house if he was just going to yell at me?"
The AI doesn't deign to respond to that and Steve lets out a frustrated ugh.
"Tony, I'm being serious, what are you doing?" He waves towards the corridor, "And who was that?"
Tony laughs cruelly, "What, Rogers, are you jealous?"
Steve stiffens at that, but Tony carries on regardless.
"Look, Steve, I know you missed a lot when you were having some down time out in your little freeze box in the snow? But this isn't the 40s. You missed the whole "free love" movement. Fondue was a big deal back then."
The clumsy jabs don't go unnoticed. Steve's fingers tighten round his arms, deep grooves appearing in the fabric, and there is tension in his jaw as his teeth grind together.
And still Tony continues. He just doesn't care, he is so far past caring. He is tired, the alcohol is wearing off, and he is getting progressively more and more irritated with the man standing in front of him, judging him.
"I sleep around. Alright? That is just something that I do. You cannot stop me from doing that, and I could not give less of a fuck what people think about it."
He gestures angrily at him with a hand, "And anyway, why do you care who I sleep with, Steve? What the hell is it to you?"
Steve takes three quick steps and comes to a halt right in front of Tony's face, towering over him, a pillar of red, white and blue barely concealed rage.
"Tony, the drinking, the sleeping with random women, it has got to stop. Ignoring the problem is not going to solve anything, and you know that. I know what this is about," Tony snorts, "I know why you're doing this; you can't fool me and you can't just avoid me and think that that will stop me from figuring it out. You pushed her away in the first place, Tony, your erratic behaviour and your endless bullshit, and do you really think that this is going to make it any better? How do you think this would make her feel if she knew?"
And that stops Tony cold. Because Steve is talking about Pepper. How does he know that?
The soldier's eyes are full of contempt, and something Tony recognises all too easily as disappointment, but they are somehow tinged with sadness too. Steve shakes his head.
"You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself, Tony. Pepper was right."
The words knock the wind out of him like a fist in his gut. Then, without thinking, anger burning white-hot in his chest, Tony retorts acidly, "You're one to talk, Steve. How do you deal with your problems, huh? Tell me that. I had to babysit you in the middle of the night while you were crying like a little girl. You're pathetic."
Steve visibly recoils.
Tony sneers up at him, "Why do you care what I do, huh? What the fuck does it matter to anyone else what I do?"
And now Steve shouts into Tony's face, "Because we are a team, Tony, we all have to work together! That is the entire point of a team! If even one of us is out of sync, the team won't be effective. Do you understand that concept? We have to work together to do the things we have to do. We can't do that if you're constantly drunk, or off the grid, or sleeping around, or destroying your relationships with everyone around you!"
Steve is pacing, angrily stalking backwards and forwards in front of Tony. Tony's jaw is set, mouth a tight, hard line, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"You haven't checked in at HQ for two weeks, Tony, you've disconnected your comms… What if we needed you, huh? What if you were on another bender and we really needed you to come in? What use are you to us if you're not even fully conscious half the time?"
Steve puts himself right in front of Tony's face again, "When was the last time you went a day without a drink, huh? Tell me that, Tony, when?"
Tony's eyes are hard, and squaring up to Steve, bodies close, he spits the words,
"You think you know me so well, Rogers, you think you've got me all figured out. Well, sorry to disappoint you but you don't know jack shit about me, or my life, and you sure as hell don't get to lecture me just because you're a captain. I will not take orders from you. I will do whatever the hell I want, for as long as I want to do it. And if you don't like that? Then you can just stay the fuck away from me."
Steve's eyes flicker, and - bizarrely, Tony thinks - a pleading note bleeds into his voice, "Tony, please, this has to stop. You need to talk to Pepper, because you can't just keep-"
Tony abruptly shoves Steve away from him, eyes wild, "Oh, so suddenly I'm getting relationship advice from someone whose relationship has literally been ON ICE for the last 70 years? Give me a fucking break, Rogers-"
The bare second of silence that follows is broken by the sickening crack of Steve's fist meeting Tony's face.
Tony reels backwards into a table, sending papers and objects flying. Steve is livid, eyes black with rage.
"You're such a piece of work sometimes, Tony, my God; you haven't got a shred of decency in you, do you?" He spits the words with utter disgust.
Hand clasped to the red welt rapidly swelling on his cheek, Tony screeches, "Oh, I'm sorry, why the fuck exactly are you angry? I'm the one that just got punched in the face!"
Steve's expression is cold and still as stone, contempt radiating from him in palpable waves. He stands before him, the patriot, the role model, the perfect solider, and suddenly, Tony sees red.
He lunges at him, locking his hands around Steve's soft throat. Steve immediately responds by kneeing Tony hard in the stomach, provoking a loud, rattling gasp from the smaller man as the wind is knocked from him.
They fight, throwing themselves into each other over and over again, punching, clawing, kicking, and grunting with the pain and the effort. There is a roar in Tony's ears, blood coursing hot in his veins. He is beyond self-control, and his rage crashes relentlessly through him in jagged red waves. He wants Steve to hurt like he hurts, and for a time hurt is all he knows. Blows rain down upon him, the incessant impact of fists and feet, and though pain blossoms all over his body, he doesn't stop. He can't. The rage burns in him like fire, but the drink makes him clumsy. It makes him slow.
Steve, lip broken and bloody, finally has his arms locked around Tony, trying to pin him down, but when Tony suddenly brings his fist hard up into Steve's ribs, Steve grunts in shock and releases him. He quickly regains his breath and launches himself into Tony. The force knocks him clear off his feet, and sends the two of them sailing into a bookcase. It collapses around them, obliterated.
Coughing, clutching at bruises and cuts as the dust settles over them, their rage slowly ebbs. The fight has gone out of them, and the two men lie prone in the debris, papers and books and wreckage strewn all around them.
In the rubble, bright colour catches Tony's eye.
A picture of him and Pepper.
His hand reaches for it, fingers grating against its jagged edges, and the broken glass leaves a smear of red across his palm and fingers. As he tries to pick it up, it collapses in his hand, spider web cracks running across the surface of the glass. Inside, an ache spasms violently. It isn't a physical ache, though he feels his body shudder with those too, but Tony suddenly feels raw, cracked open, his weakness left to bleed out into the world for all to see.
And a small voice betrays him, to whisper, why do you break everything you touch?
Steve hacks a cough through the dust, croaking "Tony…?"
"Get out", Tony says quietly, and there is steel under his words, soft as they are.
Steve pushes debris from his legs, crawling over the ruins of the bookcase towards him. His bloody mouth opens as an apology tries to force its way out, "Tony, I..."
"Just don't, Steve." Tony rasps, breath coming in ragged snatches, " Just, get out."
The look Tony gives him is cold enough to send a shiver of ice jolting down his spine.
Fear settles deep in the pit of Steve's stomach as he looks into Tony's eyes. Something constricts in his throat, and again in his chest, cold fingers wrapping round his heart and squeezing. He has gone too far. Steve feels the panic rise, but he cannot break Tony's gaze.
"Leave," Tony whispers, and it sounds as if it was choked from him.
Steve clambers from the rubble, and leaves without saying a word.
A/N: To all you reviewers out there, ooooooh I just wanna smoosh your wonderful little faces! You are making me so happy!
Next chapter, someone finally makes a move!
