05
Under the Table
Tony wakes up under a table in a house that wasn't his. He could see his feet sticking out of the end in his worn socks, and he wriggled his toes to make sure they were still attached. He could have woken up missing an arm and it all would've been lost to the fog of confusion that was the night before. He pulled a pillow off the couch for his head and rolled over, knocking over a bottle of scotch by his head. It's empty, so it just rolls across the hard floor and collides into the wall several feet away.
The dawn light filters through the window and the light marble of the table made him feel like he was laying in a coffin. One of the more expensive ones, with velvet lining, and a built in pillow, and golden handles. No wonder he dreamt about being buried alive.
A different, more sober man would have passed out on the couch, but he had the vague memory of tripping on something. He must've passed out when he hit the ground.
Shit. Did he break in? He didn't remember anyone coming to open the door, it more or less just opened for him.
He rolled over, fishing for his phone in the pocket of his jeans. Six-eighteen. That's way later than his average, which is around two o'clock. He should get drunk more often. Because that's working for you great so far.
Tony doesn't bother checking his notifications, even though the number above the envelope icon reads that he has fourteen unread messages. Six missed calls, according to the phone bubble. Instead, he opened up the internet and searched his own name. Pages of results came up. None regarded last night's drinking episode, which was a relief. That meant he hadn't publicly humiliated himself.
Not that he gave a damn. The only person who even relatively cared about his image anymore was Pepper, who constantly rode his ass about how the media scrutinized him.
His hangover was settling in. He was going to need something to keep it at bay.
He crawled out from under the table and climbed to his knees, waiting for the swirl of nausea to pass. It was freezing, and he searched the area for his shirt, before he staggered in what he could only guess was the direction of the bathroom. It was silent in the house, but his ears were pounding.
He located the bathroom and tripped over himself trying to open the door, searching for something that could ease the heartbeat in his brain.
He flinched when he flipped the light switch, and he could vaguely make out the outline of his body in the mirror, mingling with the halogen spots of his vision. He examined his face. The puffiness would go away once his hangover fades and he can catch up on sleep, and he could only hope that the horrible, patchy from-the-box-hair-dye color of his hair would even out eventually.
Every other month, he had to re-dye his hair, prompting some good-natured ribbing from Rhodey. It hadn't been a slow change, either. A few unnoticeable silver hairs in a head of burnt umber in July, and in January, his sudden change of hair color was all the rage of the media, even after he'd dyed it. They'd done a report on his parents, and the fact that they'd only just started greying before they died in their later years. Some writers had gone back so far as his great-great-great grandfather and they've come to the conclusion that Tony Stark was an anomaly on both sides of the family.
That's all the reporters had to talk about these days; Tony Stark's greying hair and the fact that he practically disappeared from the map. Not that he wasn't ever spotted wandering the streets in the dead of night, but he no longer raced the newest luxury cars down the strip just for the hell of it, and he stopped both hosting and attending high-end parties, and strange women were no longer spotted coming and going from the Stark tower. The only public statement he'd given out was in the form of his trusted assistant, Pepper; other than her and his driver, all other staff had been fired off.
Rather uncharacteristically, Tony liked not being at the center of attention for once, and he even sat down in front of the television to watch Steve Rogers release his first statement, but once he started to ramble on about the Winter Soldier and his redemption, he promptly turned it off and walked back to his bedroom, where he opened up a bottle of scotch. He sat in the darkness and poured himself a glass, drank it, and poured another.
He didn't remember much after that. Strangely enough, this had become his routine; an endless cycle of self-deprecation that Tony knew he wouldn't escape anytime soon. Every day felt like he was climbing up a pile of mud, and at the end of the day, no matter how much progress he made, he just came sliding back down to the bottom.
"Hello?" A voice snipes from the other end of the bathroom door. "Matthew is that you? Damn it, I have to get ready for school!"
Before he could realize what was happening, the door was shoved open. The knob dug into his side, nearly knocking him off his feet, and by the time he steadied himself, he locked eyes with the startled eyes of a teenage girl.
"Oh hell," The girl groaned, her hands going to her hips. From behind the mask of smeared mascara, her eyes were pinned on his face. Tony had seen that look many times, and the only thing he could do was wait for her to recognize him.
"Listen kid, I was looking for an Advil. Or something. If you could get me one, I'll sign your shirt." His voice cracked as he said it.
"For the love of Christ. Dad! Dad! Come collect your client!" She bellowed over her shoulder, and then stormed down the hallway.
Tony frowned, alarm and confusion settling in. Oh, fuck. What did he do last night?
A thousand scenarios played in his mind, but luckily he wasn't left wondering for long. The teenage girl had returned, dragging a man behind her. His face was red from sleep and his beard had somehow been pushed up towards his nose, making him look like some kind of yeti, but Tony could recognize him from anywhere. After all, he'd been the only therapist he stuck with for more than two sessions.
"You lost?" Doctor Collier asked, leaning against the door, wearing hideous blue flannels.
Tony went silent, trying to recall the previous night's events. Then, after a few moments of silence, he said, "Your door was unlocked."
"So, you just let yourself inside?" the therapist asked incredulously.
"I mean, yeah. You don't like company?"
"Not when we're sleeping."
"Beggars can't be choosers," he muttered mildly, returning to his task of trying to find some pain killers.
"He smells like a bar," the girl whispered angrily, plugging her nose.
"Yeah, and you smell like bad breath and teenage hormones," Tony sniped, rubbing his eyes. "You don't see me complaining."
"Natalie, why don't you go downstairs?" Doctor Collier asked, calm, looking her in the eye.
Natalie relented and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her pink bathrobe. "Okay, but if I'm late for school, it's on him. Tony Stark made me late - yeah, that'd be my best excuse yet."
"Is anyone going to tell me where the damn pain killers are?"
"Did you try the medicine cabinet?" Amused, he leaned past him to pop it open on a clutter of cosmetics and medicine bottles. He reached for a bottle and drops two aspirin into his hand. "You can use the glass by the sink. It's clean."
"Thanks." He slugged the pill down and suddenly felt like he'd melt into a puddle on the floor as the water rushed down his throat.
"Is there something you came here to talk about, Tony? It must've been important to come here in the middle of the night."
Tony shrugged passively. "I was just hoping you'd have a good bottle of wine. It was closer than the liquor store."
Doctor Collier had been his therapist for a month now. Not because Tony felt satisfied with his sessions, but because Pepper insisted that he knew what he was doing. Rather than prescribing him anti-depressants and insomnia medication, Doctor Collier encouraged him to talk about his problems, rather than suppressing them, which Tony was notoriously bad at.
Talk about his feelings? No, thanks. Bring on the drugs.
"Unfortunately, I finished off my last bottle of Merlot the other night. How about you get cleaned up, and I'll buy you breakfast? On me."
"We're not friends," Tony muttered.
"Trust me, I know, Tony." Doctor Collier rolled his eyes. "If you'd like, we could do one of our normal sessions." And by normal sessions he meant where he just asks questions while Tony stares mindlessly at the wall.
"Will there be liquor?"
"It's seven in the morning," Doctor Collier said with a dead pan expression. Tony looked over at him quirking an eyebrow, and Collier shook his head in frustration. "Yes. They'll have liquor. So, how bout it, Stark?"