The looks Tony gets from George could freeze fire. He spends the car ride back to the hotel, which he learns is called The Blanchaient, trying to curl up into a small of a ball as possible in the back of the car.
An eternity of him wallowing in nauseous self-disgusted purgatory passes before the car comes to a stop.
"The room's 701. Get the hell out."
Tony stumbles out of the car on weak legs. The taste of stale vomit is making him gag and he thinks he's probably dehydrated. George throws the key at his back and bending down to pick it up takes him nearly five minutes. Once he's managed bending down he realizes that there are at least five room keys on the ground and they are all ungrabable.
Tony is used to disapproving looks.
The fact that everyone he passes in The Blanchaient is disgusted with him hardly registers. Tony is far more disgusted with himself than anyone could ever be.
He flops into the room without seeing it and crawls to the bathroom, where he proceeds to drown himself in the sink.
Tony looks at himself in the mirror for what feels like the first time in years.
He's dripping wet, his mouth and eyes are swollen beyond reason, and he's ringed in kiss shaped bruises. It looks more like he has some kind of disease than that he had a what? a sevensome? an orgy?
Tony throws off the clothes he was wearing and throws them all into the bathtub.
There's a box of matches and he lights one before throwing it on top of the foul-smelling pile of stained clothing.
He watches them burn and smoke and sizzle and blacken.
He is sorely tempted to throw himself on top of them.
It is a testament to both Tony's boredom and discomfort that an hour later he's cleaning the tub himself. He scrubs and scrubs it past clean, almost forgetting what he's doing entirely.
After his near death experience he's not crazy about bathtubs, but he takes the time to scrub himself raw. He brushes his teeth until his gums bleed. He watches his blood swirl around in the bathwater and disperse.
After his bath Tony crawls into bed. He can feel bruises blooming on his stomach from Loki's assault and he doesn't even want to look at them.
He's terrified of what Loki will do to him, but his body is physically incapable of caring. He's got nothing in him but a hangover, the remnants of a come-down, and bile.
He collapses on top of the duvet, limp and artlessly sprawled.
OH MY GOD IT IS DAVID BOWIE'S BIRTHDAY AND HE'S RELEASED A NEW SINGLE AND HAS AN ALBUM OUT IN MARCH I NEVER THOUGHT THIS WOULD HAPPEN WHILE I'M ALIVE I'VE BEEN CRYING ON AND OFF FOR LIKE 12 HOURS I'M SORRY I'M NOT REPLYING TO YOUR REVIEWS BUT I AM INCAPABLE OF ANYTHING YOU DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME OR HOW EXCITED I AM THERE IS NO POSSIBLE WAY I JUST I JUST I LOVE HIM SO MUCH AND HE'S THE REASON I STARTED MY CLASSIC-ROCK-ESQUE BAND AND THE REASON I WROTE THIS FIC AND THE REASON I AM STILL ALIVE AND THE REASON I CAN ANYTHING AND MY WHOLE FUCKING LIFE HAS JUST BECOME WORTHWHILE BECAUSE OF DAVID BOWIE AND WHAT IF HE GOES ON TOUR FOR THE NEXT DAY AND I CAN'T FUCKING DEAL WITH THIS FOR THE LOVE OF EVER-FUCKING FUCKERY.
WHEN I FOUND OUT I TOOK ALL MY CLOTHES OFF AND COVERED MYSELF IN TINSEL AND DUMPED A BOX OF UNCOOKED CRAFT MACARONI ON MY HEAD AND ROLLED AROUND ON THE FLOOR CRYING IT WAS ONE AM I AM JUST I FUCKING I JUST I CAN'T GO LISTEN TO IT AND BUY IT HE'S JUST LIKE AFTER TEN YEARS OF SILENCE FUCKING DOING IT AGAIN AND THIS IS EVERYTHING I'VE EVER WANTED EVER