Tony landed the jet easily, then spent a few minutes going through the post flight checklist while Friday scanned the tower and notified security of his arrival. "All clear, boss," she reported as he was getting out of the pilot's seat. He stood and stretched, messaged Pepper that he had arrived, then collected his bags and strolled into the building, his footsteps echoing in the spacious stillness.

He stopped by the bar to collect a bottle of scotch-he had never fully restocked the bar after the Ultron incident, but scotch was important enough that he always had some on hand-then left that floor in favor of his suite. Those rooms actually looked lived-in, unlike the (former) common areas, since he stayed there whenever he had business in New York. With the Accords and everything else, that had been fairly often.

The scotch he left on a table while he hung his clothes and changed. "Friday, order a pizza. The usual. Have it sent to R&D floor five."

"Delivery estimated in forty minutes, boss."

"On a Friday night? They're treating me well. Tip them another twenty percent on top of the usual if it arrives that quickly."

"Yes, boss."

He collected the bottle of scotch on his way back out the door. R&D floor five was where he'd developed the B.A.R.F. system and where he was still working on a few other brain-related things. Now that B.A.R.F. worked (headaches notwithstanding), it would theoretically be a simple matter to direct the same technology at a different area of the brain to, say, mentally control a device like his suit.

Theoretically. He was having some trouble converting the theory into practice. It was those squishy bits again; he wasn't good at the squishy bits. Someone better with the squishy bits would probably also be able to fix the headache problem. Maybe. But Bruce wasn't around, and there wasn't anyone else he trusted enough to allow free access to his tech, so he'd muddle through.

Not that he was planning to do a whole lot of muddling right then, not with the bottle of scotch as his company. Alcohol could be good for ideas, but it was rarely good for their execution.

Still, he could look and ponder from the stained futon while he sipped his drink.

The pizza arrived promptly and was delivered to him via the private elevator; the people at Ray's knew him and his habits well enough not to balk at leaving a pizza in an elevator while a computer told them the payment and tip had been sent. He was working on his third scotch by then. It was efficient, to use the same ice cubes for multiple glasses of alcohol. Oh had he missed his lovely, lovely scotch. Scotch and pizza was an ideal combination just then-he really had been hungry.

He ate two slices of pizza and considered a third but refilled his drink instead. How many was that? He'd lost count.

He alternated between contemplating the liquid in his glass and the various holographic projections he'd started while waiting for the pizza and then left dangling about the room. A thought teased at the edges of his mind. It had been nagging at him for as long as he'd been there and he finally decided, fuck it, he might as well give it a try. He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, then stood-more steadily than he'd expected with how much scotch he'd had on an empty stomach-and said, "Friday, turn on the emitters and prep the program for new input."

The glasses were locked in a box inside a drawer that also locked. His fingerprint opened the drawer, but the box just needed a small key. He hadn't used the system since that demonstration at MIT, and hadn't tried it on anything new for some time before that. The demo memory had been chosen because it was the most complete visually and he'd needed something stable and relatable for the presentation.

Now he was going to see how well it worked on a comparatively recent, somewhat jumbled memory. He put the glasses on, stepped over to the corner where everything was set up, and had Friday dim the lights.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the scene he remembered right before that video had played. This might work, if he could focus hard enough on changing a detail; he decided to try running it as if he'd already known about his parents.

If he'd already known . . . hell, if he'd already known, maybe he would've tried to go after Bucky earlier. But no, he didn't want to start revising that far back. Assuming they made it to that room in the same way, his reaction to the images would be the primary difference. It would not have been a shock, though seeing it happen would still be . . . disturbing. Devastating, even.

When he opened his eyes, he felt his heart beat a little bit faster upon seeing the place that had been haunting his memories. He pushed that thought away and stepped into the holographic field to check the character positioning. It was a little strange, to see his recent self from the outside like this. "Friday, update character projection based on available data from the suit recording."

"Render complete." A few scuffs appeared on the armor and the Steve projection shifted angle slightly.

He stepped out of the scene and concentrated on transposing his current feelings into his past self. "Start," he said, and the figures began to move, migrating toward the screen with the video.

Tony stood where he could also see the screen, and that proved to be his downfall. Despite knowing what happened, despite having run through it in his mind dozens of times, watching it here and now was like a punch to the throat. He never should have taken the tape from the bunker, much less digitized it.

He lost control of the simulation.

Instead of the alternate events he'd hoped to see, the characters recreated what had happened as his mind and his suit remembered it.

What he saw was dreamlike, in a way, an odd amalgamation of his perspective and how it might have looked to an observer, the changes in background and location vague and sometimes nonsensical.

Perhaps nightmarish was the better word.

He felt each blow anew, panic welling up and overwhelming any thought of stopping, of leaving, even of simply shutting his eyes.

He could not speak to tell the system to stop.

He could do nothing but watch, frozen, as the worst memory of his life played out before him in lifelike holograms.

When the shield shattered the arc reactor he finally reacted, tearing the glasses from his face and fleeing the room.

It was too much. He couldn't take it, not like that, not with the nightmares and the lack of sleep and everything else, not with how much alcohol was in his bloodstream after a long drought.

So he ran.

Out the door, up the stairs, desperate to get away. He ran up to the roof where the difference in texture beneath his bare feet caused him to stumble and fall. He landed on hands and knees with a jarring impact and his churning stomach rejected what it contained.

His heart was pounding, his head was pounding, he could hardly breathe. When his arms began to tremble, he let himself fall to one side rather than collapse into what remained of the pizza and scotch.

He had no idea how long he stayed there, a miserable huddle on the roof of the tower. When he had calmed down enough to be aware of his surroundings, he was grateful that it was night and no one could see him.

Eventually he forced himself to move. He trod slowly, mechanically, back down the stairs, aware that he could take the elevator but not wanting to stop moving lest he be unable to start again.

"Friday, is the system still running?" There was no way he was going back into that room if he had to see the holograms, especially at the point he'd left them.

"No, boss."

"Why did it run as long as it did? I know I programmed a failsafe."

"Yes, boss, there is a subroutine for termination in the event of severe subject distress. However, the parameters for what constitutes severe distress were never specified."

He stopped in the doorway and sighed. Of course it was his fault. Wasn't it always?

When the glasses were safely returned to their locked case in the locked drawer, he collected the box of pizza and the bottle of scotch and returned to his suite. He felt entirely too sober for this nonsense and he planned to fix that.

Slouched on his couch like a slob, he took his time enjoying the rest of the scotch while staring listlessly out the window at the glittering city.

He considered having another piece of pizza since his earlier meal was currently congealing on the roof but decided the scotch was enough. That, and the pizza was on a table by the door where he'd dropped it as he'd come in, and getting up and going over there was too much effort and he would probably be unsteady on his feet anyway.

His thoughts felt like syrup oozing through his brain. It was hard to think and even harder to feel anything other than the comfortable buzz of the liquor sloshing in his veins.

"Boss?" Friday sounded hesitant.

"Yeah?" At least, that was what he intended to say; what actually came out was far less intelligible.

"The bottle has been empty for fifteen minutes." Was he imagining things, or was there a hint of reproach in her voice?

And when did he start drinking straight from the bottle? He peered at it and it was indeed empty, so he leaned forward to set it on the floor and nearly pitched himself off the couch head-first. He dropped the bottle, then slumped onto his side, the leather of the cushions feeling blessedly cool.

He either fell asleep or passed out at some point after that and didn't wake until the sun coming in the uncovered windows was shining right in his face. He winced, aware of the hammering headache just after the blinding sunlight, and tried to roll onto his back so he could throw an arm over his eyes. The leather that had felt so nice hours before was now stuck to his sweaty skin. Moving his head and feeling his skin slowly peel away from the leather was an unpleasant tactile experience on top of the other misery.

"Boss?"

He grunted in response. Words weren't something he could find through the pulsing cloud that was his headache.

"You need to take your medication."

He groaned at the thought of moving and didn't move.

A few minutes later, Friday tried again, with the same response.

She was nothing if not persistent and after the same conversation had repeated itself at least six times, Tony finally realized that she wasn't going to stop pestering him until he'd taken the damn pill.

He took a deep breath and started rolling himself toward the edge of the couch. It came far earlier than he was expecting and he rolled right off but managed to awkwardly catch himself on hands and knees. He'd intended to try standing but crawling seemed more doable, so he slowly crept forward across the carpet.

"The bottle is in the bag just inside the closet, boss," Friday informed him helpfully.

He made it there eventually, though he almost turned the wrong way after rounding the couch. The bottle was near the top of the bag and he dry swallowed his dose for the day, as that was easier than trying to crawl to the bathroom for water with the pill in hand.

He considered simply sprawling in the closet for a while-it was certainly large enough-but he really, really needed to do something about the headache and the pain relievers were in the bathroom. Plus, water might help and water was also in the bathroom.

So he embarked on the laborious journey from closet to bathroom, then had to pull himself onto his feet using the toilet and the sink. He didn't bother looking into the mirror before pulling it open to find something, anything, that might tame the throbbing. Whatever it was he found first, he took three, then gulped an entire glass of water.

There was a moment when he wasn't sure if the water would stay put or not. It stayed, so he refilled the glass and took his time in draining it again.

Surprisingly, he was still on his feet after that, so he decided a long soak in the tub sounded like a good idea. He even managed to get his clothes off without falling and breaking something.

The warm jets of water went a long way toward relaxing everything that was tense and whatever he'd taken also started kicking in, which made him less than inclined to budge from his spot anytime soon. Not that he had anywhere to be. The headache was definitely still present, but the dull roar was an improvement over what it had been.

"Boss, Colonel Rhodes is calling," Friday said, pulling him out of a doze.

"Put him through," he replied languidly.

"Tony?" Rhodey's voice asked a second later.

"Yeah, it's me." He knew he should probably say something else, but he hadn't found any more words before Rhodey spoke again.

"You all right? You sound a little off."

"Headache," he said lamely.

"Sorry, I won't keep you long. It's just that we're wondering, what happened to the toaster?"

"What toaster?"

"The toaster. We used to have one, but we can't find it. Any idea where it went?"

"I don't know anything about a fucking toaster," he replied irritably. As soon as he said it, his watch chimed from the ledge beside the tub and Friday played a bit of security footage that showed him dismantling a toaster two weekends earlier.

"Take it easy, it was just a question. We'll buy a new one."

"Then why the hell are you asking me about it?"

"Because finding the old one would be faster," Rhodey said patiently. "Everything okay with you and Pepper? You're not normally this uptight even when you have a headache."

"We're fine," he replied shortly.

"Right." Rhodey didn't sound convinced. "Will you be back at the compound before Monday, or should we meet you in New York City?"

"Meet me in New York City. If you want to stay over Sunday night, I'll be here."

There was a moment of silence. "'Here'?" Rhodey asked finally. "Where are you right now, Tony?"

Shit. He shouldn't have answered the phone, not when thinking felt like slogging through waist-deep sand. He knew something about slogging through sand. "In the bathtub," he answered evasively.

"In what state?"

Damn him, Rhodey knew to be more specific than just asking 'where?' like most people. "New York," he admitted.

"Why not come to the compound?"

"To have some time to get my shit together before Monday."

"Do me a favor and don't do anything stupid."

"Too late."

Another pause. "That would explain the headache."

"Yep."

"Have Friday let me know if you need us there sooner than tomorrow."

"I won't."

"See you tomorrow."

"Bye." The call disconnected and he focused a glare on his watch. "Did you tell him about the toaster?"

"No, boss."

He grumbled under his breath about meddling programs as he drained the tub and stood up, the water swirling around him as it sank.

Wrapping himself in a towel, he padded over to the pizza box; his stomach had started growling and he thought he'd take advantage of the lull in the headache to eat something while he wouldn't want to throw it up again.

Three pieces later, he was questioning his life choices-or at least the choice to have that third piece. He sank back onto the sofa and dozed for a while. During a moment of semi-consciousness, he remembered he really ought to start reviewing the Accords again, but his brain responded to that thought with a stab of pain. Never mind, then.

Eventually he persuaded himself to move off the couch. He exchanged his towel for sweats, drank more water and popped a few more pills, then stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes again. Just that small amount of movement had made him dizzy and the headache continued to throb. It was the worst headache he'd had in awhile, perhaps even since his pre-Iron Man days. No, on second thought, the palladium caused some pretty epic headaches. Whatever. It was bad.

He fell asleep again and woke up with his heart fluttering in his chest even though he couldn't remember having a nightmare. "Friday?" he murmured.

Fortunately, she knew what he wanted without any elaboration. "Temperature and heart rate are slightly elevated, consistent with past episodes. All other readings are within normal ranges, boss."

It was typical for one of his hangovers, then. It had been long enough since he'd had one that he didn't remember.

He paid a visit to the bathroom then went back to bed. The rest of the day passed in similar fashion, then passed into night without him noticing.

When he woke the next morning the headache was finally nearly gone and he felt almost rested. Almost, but not quite. And the thought of facing other people, even though one of those people was Rhodey, had his stomach knotting in dread. Reliving Siberia had him feeling fragile, brittle. He was fairly confident that he could keep Rogers at bay with his polished facade. Rhodey knew him better and might be able to put a finger on his cracks.

Any pressure on his cracks was likely to make him shatter, like a badly damaged suit with no one inside.

Better not to think about it. Better to keep himself moving, keep himself busy, and maybe the focus on the mundane would reinforce his mask before the others arrived.

He got up, took his meds, showered, shaved, and, pizza box in hand, went down to his lab on the Avenger floors to brush up on all things Accords-related and check his email for the first time in days. He'd need the bigger screens to do that properly.

He occupied himself for several hours this way, then switched his attention to wrapping up the loose ends on that project for T'Challa. He munched on a piece of pizza while Friday connected to his workshop computer at the compound and brought up the schematics. It was nearly finished, though he could think of half a dozen things he could've done better if his mind had been more in the game, but these wouldn't be the final specs so it wasn't the end of the world.

When he was finished, he had Friday wipe the drive T'Challa had given him, encrypt it again, then save the files. He sent Rhodey a message asking him to grab the drive from the workshop and bring it with him, then returned to meditating on the Accords.

His prolonged time away from the document that had formerly been occupying his every thought and waking moment had been beneficial: now that he read it with fresher eyes, he could appreciate all of the things they had done well and notice more immediately the parts that still needed work. The definitions topped that list, but they'd known that already.

Friday alerted him when the chopper landed, so he met Rhodey and Steve at the door to the main room. "Welcome back," he said casually.

"Good to see you, Tony," Steve said and seemed to mean it.

Rhodey looked him up and down, then nodded in apparent satisfaction as he pushed his wheelchair toward the elevator. "I think the time away did you good, despite yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Steve asked.

"I had a migraine," Tony said quickly, shooting a glance at Rhodey.

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Yeah, thanks. Look, I'll be in the lab whenever you're done stashing your stuff."

"Sure thing, Tony," Rhodey said as he followed Rogers into the elevator.

Tony stared at the doors for a minute after they closed, then went back to the lab as he'd promised.

Rhodey was the first to join him, now sitting in the wheelchair he'd been pushing earlier.

"The chopper doesn't have a ramp," Tony said abruptly.

"It sure doesn't," Rhodey agreed. "But I'm getting pretty good at slinging this thing around, and having Rogers hovering, anxious to help, doesn't hurt."

"I'll have to fix that."

"That might be nice. Here's the drive you asked for."

"Thanks," Tony said absently, slipping it into a secure drawer.

"What is it?"

"A project for T'Challa."

"You're still angling to have him give you some vibranium?"

"Wouldn't you?" That hadn't actually crossed his mind in relation to this project, but if the Wakandan King decided to show his appreciation, Tony sure as hell wasn't going to say no.

"Will he be here this week?"

"He said he might."

"How do we look for tomorrow?"

"That depends on what they think," he said, shrugging.

"The chairwoman likes the revisions overall," Steve spoke up as the door closed behind him. "But she has a few reservations. I talked to her while you were away."

"That sounds about right," Rhodey said.

Tony displayed his list of things that needed work as a giant hologram. "If we're doing well, then all of her quibbles are already on this list. If not, then we may be in trouble."

Steve carefully read the list, then nodded in affirmation. They started talking about the list, but Tony stopped them long enough to decide what to have for dinner (with his suggestion being "anything other than pizza").

Once shawarma was ordered, they began compiling predictions of what the committee members would suggest for each of the points of debate. Which is to say, Tony tried to predict the objections, since neither Steve nor Rhodey had met anyone other than the chairwoman yet, and they tried to come up with responses. The three also talked about the likelihood that the attendees would break into smaller groups to discuss certain points (especially, again, the definitions), and how they would split up if that happened.

This continued while they ate and well afterward, until Rhodey suggested they make it an early night. There were no objections.

Steve took the stairs to his quarters, but Tony rode the elevator with Rhodey. "Nervous?" Rhodey asked sympathetically.

"Some, yeah. It has the potential to go so very wrong."

"Worse than it has already?" Rhodey asked doubtfully.

"Far worse," he said without hesitation. "If the revisions don't work, we're all better off becoming fugitives."

"I can see that for Rogers and his group, but for us? Really?"

"Do you want to be the one forced to capture or kill Captain America?" Tony asked pointedly as the elevator doors opened. "I can promise you, that won't end well for anyone involved."

"Assuming Wanda even lets you try," Rhodey said, rolling into the hallway. "I see your point. Are you still planning on buying us an island?"

Tony laughed. "The trouble is finding one for sale. At this rate, it might be faster to build one."

"Like the Raft? That won't go over well."

"It wouldn't be submersible for lots of reasons, starting with the enormous green rage monster."

Rhodey chuckled and shook his head. "Now there's a scary thought." The automatic door to his suite slid open without a sound, but he hesitated before going in. "You're sure you and Pepper are okay?"

"Is there something you're trying to tell me?" Tony joked, but Rhodey didn't even smile. "No, I promise, we're good."

"All right. You just really seemed off yesterday."

"That was the headache. Scout's honor."

Rhodey continued studying him, but eventually nodded. "You know I'm always happy to listen."

"So you keep telling me," Tony said with mock exasperation. "Now look, are you going inside or what? Do you want me to tuck you in?"

"That won't be necessary," Rhodey said archly, rolling through the doorway. "Don't let the bedbugs bite," he called over his shoulder.

"As if I'd allow bedbugs in my tower," Tony replied with feigned horror.

"Knowing you, they'd be tiny bots."

"Don't give me any ideas."