p • r • e • s • s • u • r • e

nervosa

It was sweet and it made his teeth hurt, sticking to the roof of his mouth, thick and cloying. There was no abundance of flavours in this, there was only one and it was sweet. Tony felt sick. 

"See? Not so bad, huh?"

"Mine are better."

He washed it down with coffee, which was a relief and a comfort, like Penelope being rescued by Odysseus. He ate all the nuts and made it a quarter of the way through the pancake before he stood abruptly.

"Where-"

"Bathroom. Don't fucking follow me."

Bruce sighed, watched as he stalked to the back of the shop. He'd shed his parka long ago, and the scientist eyed it.

"JARVIS?"

"Yes?" He answered, from the phone in Tony's pocket.

"How is he?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. Blood glucose levels are dangerously low but they spiked just recently, which means they'll crash. I don't think the nuts were enough to stabilise him. He's sleep patterns are irregular and cognitive functions have suffered as a result. Alcohol levels are pretty low, so at least there's that. But without the alcohol...he's in a considerable amount of pain, Bruce."

He never calls me Bruce. It's always Doctor Banner. 

"Where from?"

"Well, you may need to take a look at his abdominal stitches. He's got a migraine, severe contusions to the back and his arm fracture is barely healing at all. Metabolic rate far below normal. Frequent application of traumatic pressure to the arc reactor has caused significant tissue damage, and his nervous system has become oversensitive. Peripheral neuropathy has caused tremors which he is disregarding."

Bruce's stomach dropped.

"Jesus."

The scientist looked into his macchiato.

"Well, then."

He rested his chin on his laced fingers.

"What am I gonna do?"

"The first recommended course of action is to proceed to the lavatory immediately."

"Yeah."

His chair scraped loudly against the lino floor.

He walked into the mens' and heard Tony puking from the largest stall. The door was locked, he leaned against it.

"You okay in there?"

"The fuck kind of a question is that?" he rasped.

"Right, sorry."

Bruce heard the tear of toilet tissue and a flush. The door gave way behind him and Tony marched over to the sinks.

"I told you that was a bad idea."

Bruce sighed. 

"You were right."

"Of course I was," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry. Eating disorders are tough, I get it."

Tony froze mid-rinse, cheap pink soap foam dripping into the sink bowl.

"Eating disorders?"

Right. Maybe too soon.

"An eating disorder. That's  what you think this is."

"Tony it's okay."

"No, it's fucking not-I don't have an eating disorder."

"Okay, fine. We don't have to call it anything."