Chapter Text
“Would you like me to make tea?” Vision asks. The droid stands in Tony’s kitchen, looking around with wide eyes at the unfamiliar space surrounding him. He has visited the Tower on occasion but he has never had a need to step into the kitchen space before now as it offers him little. “That is what the doctor does when he is feeling stressed.”
Tony frowns at the droid as he takes a seat at the kitchen bar, watching the man watch him. “I’m not stressed, I’m depressed. And why do you know what Stephen does when he’s stressed out?”
“Doctor Strange spends much of his time at the compound,” he replies. “When he is not in Kamar-Taj and when he believes he is not welcome in your home it is where he comes, I believe, to socialize.”
“When has he felt unwelcome around me?”
“He is under the impression that you require space,” Vision says. “Before the two of you were outspokenly romantically involved he would spend many days at the compound.”
“He hates his apartment,” Tony says, but it sounds hollow to his own ears. He hadn’t known Stephen had been isolating himself to the compound just to be someplace other than his penthouse uptown. Had Stephen wanted away from him that bad?
“I do not understand his behavior, but your human conduct often perplexes me. He divulged to me that he experiences a large degree of stress and finds that tea is a helpful solvent. It is illogical, but the strength of human willpower over reason is quite remarkable.”
Tony knows he is the cause of Stephen’s stress and with the knowledge now hot and weighty on his mind he finds the likelihood of Stephen not returning ever rising. He gnaws on his thumbnail and pushes away from the counter and back onto his feet. “I don’t need tea.”
He isn’t going to drink, he’s decided that, but Christ, he really wants something. Tony hasn’t been one for drugs since his parents died but he had a small relapse after Rogers (it really wasn’t a big deal, the therapists blew it out of proportion), but he would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind once or twice over the past few months. Tony knows all he would have to do is wander down to Central Park, plenty of smackheads and dealers linger around the park entrance looking for some sorry kid to sell uppers and downers and pilfered prescriptions. It’s really quite sad that he knows exactly who to look for if he wants some smack - his name’s Jake and he’s a Columbia dropout that worked at his father’s furniture store up until his old man kicked him out, he still has his phone number. The fact that Tony knows any of this means absolutely nothing, fuck off.
Tony shakes himself. “Thanks for coming by, Vis. It means a lot, but I think I need to- you know,” he shrugs sorrily.
“You would like to be alone,” Vision deduces. “Of course, I’ll leave you to yourself.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Vision nods. “I shall be at the compound, should you require anything.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to call.” He watches Vision leave through the lift and buries his hands in the pouch pocket of his hoodie. He looks down at his chest and realizes he’s wearing Stephen’s sweatshirt. With Vision gone, Tony grabs his coat and his shoes and his keys.
He is in Central Park in twenty minutes. It should be enough time to reconsider but Tony has always had an addictive personality and once he’s made up his mind he doesn't bother to backtrack. Jake isn’t around, but instead a young Latino kid Tony has seen once before. Tony hands over one-hundred and twenty total because he’s an impulse shopper. He goes for the Quaaludes (they help him sleep), and leaves with several others as well (he’s had a weakness for the downers but he feels the need to balance it out with some uppers while he’s at it).
He doesn't take them straight away but sets them out in their respective baggies and plastic bottles across his bathroom sink. He doesn’t bother to label them, he knows them well enough by color, shape, and size. He rests his palms against the porcelain countertop and frowns at the pills. He doesn’t know when Stephen will return (if Stephen will return) and he doesn't need the sorcerer finding him stoned out of his mind in the middle of the day. It’s only four in the afternoon. This day has felt fucking long.
Tony remembers both of his stents in rehab with a clarity that someone so out of it has no right to retain. He knows he should call his therapist, but his phone is in the kitchen and the drugs are in here. God, he’s so fucking neurotic. Substance use disorder is what his therapist had said. Tony snorts. It’s all fucking bullshit, isn’t it? He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him what the fuck is wrong with him. What the fuck does a label matter?
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before letting it out. Looking at himself in the mirror, he sees himself for the first time in days. He looks paler than his Mediterranean complexion has any right to be. His hair is a skewed mess. The bruises that line his deep-set eyes are dark and heavy. He doesn’t feel like he’s looking at himself, but as if he’s watching the actions of someone else.
He wants Stephen to come home, he wants Pepper to come home, he wants Bruce to come home. Why did he send Vision away? There’s a crippling fear in the hollow of his chest that none of them ever will come back, and why should they? He is nothing but cruel and selfish.
Each time Tony tries to think of all the cons of doing this, all that comes to mind is a big old backlit portrait of Steve fucking Rogers. He thinks of Romanoff's goodbye. He thinks of the heavy weight of a vibranium shield against his chest, he thinks of the Russian winter cold that seeps into his bones and bites at his skin. The bone-crushing anxiety overwhelms him and he cannot breathe and the panic grips him.
His hands shake as he fumbles with the ziplock baggie. He pops a pill in his mouth, fills the plastic cup by the sink with tap water, and swallows it.
Tony takes a shower and changes into his own clothes and by the time he is dried and dressed he can feel the sedative-hypnotic kicking in. It makes his mind so intoxicatingly slow and his heart (for once) doesn't feel like it’s going to burst. He feels better than he has in ages. Why the hell did he ever stop? He's on the precipice of a steep drop off and he's toeing the ledge.
He marches into the kitchen and in a fit of anxiety decides to dial Stephen. The phone rings twice before the sorcerer picks up.
“Tony? Hi, hey. Look, I’m sorry for leaving, i-”
“When are you coming home? To the Tower I mean,” he corrects himself quickly. No- he shouldn't assume. He rubs his palm across his brow in frustration and tries again. “When are you- are you coming back over?”
“Yeah, of course I am. Where else would I go?” Stephen’s voice becomes stern. “Don’t, however, think that I’m not completely livid right now. I’m not letting this be a relapse, okay?”
“Stephen.”
“I am serious.”
Tony giggles, head feeling light. “I know that you are. I’m fine. It was… I was upset, but I’m going to be better. Vision and I took out the rest of the liquor in the house. It’s all gone. Crisis averted. No worries.”
“Vision was there?”
“Yeah, he just left. I promised him I would be okay on my own, and I am. So, just come home.”
“I’ll be right there.” Stephen wants to believe him so bad that Tony can feel the plead in his voice over the line. Stephen is a stubborn bastard, however, and Tony doesn’t buy that Stephen is buying any of it for a second.
Tony still holds the phone to his cheek when Stephen steps through the blinding gold of his portal. He smiles widely a the man and immediately approaches, grabbing him and bringing him into a deep kiss. “Hey.” His skin feels like it’s burning with desire and he wants Stephen to undress him and have his way with him. He needs for Stephen to take him apart. Tony doesn't want to think about last night and he doesn't want to think about today.
He's had a stressful month, he's entitled to a small breakdown.
Stephen smiles and his eyes fall shut blissfully. “Hey.” Tony deepens the kiss on the second go around and Stephen moans into the mechanic’s mouth. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks.
“I’m an emotional wreck and I’ve missed you, sorry if the first thing I want to do when I see you is fuck you.”
“I’m not complaining,” Stephen says. “It’s- we need to talk, Tony.”
Tony hates those words. They are cursed words. No discussion begins with “we need to talk” and ends with a happy and healthy relationship. Those are the words Pepper had used before they could even begin and those are the words that he had heard in school when Whitney admitted to only using him and the words Rumiko used when she walked away from him.
“We can’t just sweep this under the rug. This is serious.”
“I know, I know,” Tony says dismissively but with as much false sincerity as he can muster. “We will talk about it but would you just fuck me first?” Tony fumbles with Stephen’s fly and urges the denim down and out of the way. He licks his way into Stephen’s mouth and hums. This is so much better.
Stephen laughs breathily and shivers from Tony’s touch. “Tony, Christ, slow down. At least let me get you to the bedroom.”
“Why bother? There’s a couch right here.” Tony pulls Stephen by his shirt, leading him towards the expanse of the sofa. He falls backward over the arm and brings Stephen down with him. Tony pulls at his own shirt, pulling it over her head and tossing it blindly to the floor.
“What is with you?”
“Just fuck me, for fuck’s sake.”
Tony fucks Stephen and then he lets Stephen fuck him in the bedroom and Tony gets the best sleep he’s had in ages. Two days go by and they don’t talk about it. He thinks Stephen is trying to give him space, he wants Tony to come to him willingly to talk. Well, he’s not going to. It’s a battle of wills between the world’s two most stubborn and it’s likely to end with an explosion if they put it off any longer, but Tony still refuses. Instead, he distracts Stephen with sex and quick remarks. Tony knows this dance,
Tony wakes before the sorcerer on day three, Stephen can be the laziest person Tony has ever met sometimes, and he rolls out of bed. He goes to the bathroom to use the toilet and pauses at the sink after washing his hands. He stares pensively at his reflection. He definitely looks more well rested then he has in weeks. The anxiety that looms over him day-in and day-out has lessened thanks to the relief of good fucking and drug-assisted sleep.
He pokes at his own face just to double check that it is his.
Tony knows he and Stephen should talk about the other night, but he would really rather do anything but. So he showers, he dresses, he throws back a Quaalude, and he goes to the garage to give his brain something to focus on. Tony grows exhaustingly bored a few hours in on a new suit. The blank slate of approaching an entirely new Iron Man suit is thrilling and allows Tony to tinker and avoid the anxiety and the uncertainty of the world on a good day. It’s an unhealthy fixation, but it’s only a problem if you address it. Tony finds he has a lack of interest in truly creating today. He wants to go outside.
As he goes upstairs he sees Stephen pulling his shoes on. The sorcerer smiles and stands once he has finished tying his laces. “Hey, I was just about to come down. I’m going by the compound, I told Wanda I’d train with her today.”
“Oh.” Tony feels vaguely disappointed that Stephen is leaving, he had wanted him to go with him for a walk. He hasn’t been out of Stephen’s sight for days and the idea is both thrilling and paralyzingly terrifying. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go to Central Park. I need fresh air.”
Stephen looks apologetic. “When I get back? I told Wanda noon.”
Tony waves it off. “Nah, I’ll just go on my own. I’m a big boy, I won’t get lost or child snatched.”
Stephen chuckles. “I don’t really believe you. You should call Clint, he’s been worried about you.”
“You just want me to have a babysitter.”
“Yes, I do, that’s why I’ve already called him.”
Tony rolls his eyes. He doesn’t need Barton to look after him, he’s not a fucking child and if he wants to get high he can get high. He does feel absently guilty for lying to Stephen, but it’s like a guilt belonging to someone else. “Yeah, thanks. I’m going to change, and then I’m going for a walk with or without Clint. So either he’s here or he’s not. Have fun with Wanda,” he tells him. “Play nice.”
“Clint will be here in five minutes, so don’t change too quickly,” Stephen says before kissing him tenderly on the lips. “Tony… we’ll talk when I get back, won’t we?” he asks. “I know you don’t want to, but…”
Tony nods and the guilt swells and becomes more present. Apparently, Stephen’s stubborn will is able to bend to his stubborn persistence. Maybe that makes him the more mature. “Yeah. You’re right, we should. We will,” he promises.
“Okay.” He brushes the fringe from Tony’s forehead. “I love you.”
Tony smiles and feels a wetness behind his eyes. “I love you.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he says. He winks over his shoulder as he slides his sling ring on. “I’m making dinner.”
Tony watches him go before hurrying to his closet. He changes into a nice shirt and a black jacket. He checks himself over after he’s pulled his shoes on, pills (inside left pocket), wallet (outer right), and Iron Man cuffs (outer left). He goes to the kitchen to grab a water bottle just as FRIDAY announces Clint is on his way up on the lift and swallows back another Quaalude with the first gulp. He has already taken the one this morning before going to the garage, but he still feels antsy and ungrounded so a second one won’t hurt. He’s building a tolerance for them quickly and finds himself doubling his intake.
“Hey, Tony!” Clint calls as he steps out of the elevator. “Where you at? Oh, hey, waddup?”
“I’m going for a walk, you can either come or you can sit on your ass here,” he says.
“O-okay. Where to?”
“Dunno. Does it matter?”
“Typically, yes?”
“Central Park then. It’s as good a destination as any, and it gives you plenty of time to ask me all of your redundant and vacuous questions.” And if he’s lucky and can shake Barton, he can refill his stock.
Clint rolls his eyes. “Yikes. Grouchy this morning.”
“Annoyed that my boyfriend thinks I need a sitter,” he says.
Clint spreads his arms with his palms face upward in surrender. “Can you blame him? I’m fucking hype that you have someone willing to breathe down your neck to make sure you don’t kill yourself.”
Tony wets his lips. “I’m not suicidal, Clint. And I had one relapse, it’s not the end of the world. I can handle my shit.”
“We’re just looking out for you, man.”
“I’m sure.” Tony enters the elevator and the archer chases after him just as he jams the down button and the doors begin to shut. The ride down is made in silence, but as soon as they hit the street and the bustle and noise of New York hits their senses Clint begins to talk incessantly. He asks about SI, he asks about Stephen, and he asks about what Tony’s been up to in the garage, but he carefully skirts around the obvious. Tony likes the fresh air nonetheless. He’s more or less successful in blocking out Clint’s chatter, responding to every seemingly innocent question as if on autopilot. Tony is just happy to be out of the house, the stale air was beginning to feel heavy and stifling.
“Stephen said you were mad at him,” Clint says once they’ve reached Central Park. There are plenty of people out at this time of day, teenagers, couples on park benches, joggers and dog walkers. “When you were drunk.”
Tony swallows. “Yeah, I was a pretty huge asshole. That’s not exactly a novel occurrence.”
“Do you… wanna talk about it?” he asks. It’s such an awkward and unnatural question coming from the man that it does that it causes Tony to pause in his stride.
“Are you serious right now?” Tony laughs.
Clint throws his arms up. “I don’t know, man! I’m trying here, give me a break. Cut a guy some slack. I’m worried about you, okay? Is that so horrible? For fuck’s sake, I’m new at being the feelings guy.”
“The feelings guy.” Tony scoffs. “I was pretty fucking wasted, Clint. I’ve been a little stressed, and my anxiety has been through the roof thanks to Rogers. And because I can’t keep myself together for five fucking minutes, I drink! It’s not a huge deal, don’t make it into one.”
He is tired of everyone blowing things out of proportion. Steve Rogers had been looming around for weeks, the UN has just been waiting for the perfect excuse to throw Tony in maximum security lockup, the constant threat of an invasion hangs over all of humanity, and they're worried about Tony's choices? That's what they decide to concern themselves with?
Tony just wishes they would all fuck off and leave him alone. He just wants to be left alone; alone to breathe and not have his face plastered across every news outlet. One channel praising him a hero, the next a murderer.
“Tony-”
“Look, I don’t need pity. What I need is to be able to fucking breathe. And don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled that you are back, Clint, but this has been too damn much for me. I can’t deal with Steve. I couldn’t look at the guy without having a full blown anxiety attack for months. I thought I was dying the first time- like, like heart failure or cardiac arrest. All because I’m a pussy that can’t deal with seeing a picture of the guy on the fucking news because my trigger is a national fucking figure and a goddamn American icon!” Tony takes a deep breath and runs his hands across his face a through his hair. He groans. “So, just, excuse me for having a moment of weakness. One fucking evening where I didn’t have to be Iron Man.”
Clint is looking at him so sadly it makes Tony’s heart shatter.
He is such a mess. He swipes his palms across his eyes to hide the tears that attempt to slip through. “I’m just… exhausted.”
“We should call a cab,” Clint says.
Tony laughs. “I’ll call Happy.”
Stephen is still not home when they get back to the Tower. Tony slips off his jacket and tosses it on the back of the sofa. He kicks his shoes off, losing his balance and steadying himself on the back of the couch, and runs his hands through his hair until it’s a complete mess. He knows he looks like a lunatic, but he feels like one too, so at least it fits. “I’m taking a shower,” he announces. “You can leave or you can sit around here. I don’t care which.”
Clint shrugs. “I’ll bolt. Stephen said he’d be here in about an hour and, like you said, you’re not suicidal.”
Tony snorts. He had said he wasn’t suicidal, he hadn’t said he has never been. It’s not exactly relevant but for some reason, he feels the distinction is important. “So glad you’re coordinating with my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, well, you do what you have to.” Clint shrugs and zips up his jacket. “I’ll see you later, Stark. Call if you need me, I’m thirty minutes away.”
“Not with your driving.”
“Stay out of trouble!”
“Yeah.” Tony watches him go and then goes to take a shower. He rinses off and takes a third Quaalude. Three in one day might be pushing it but despite the two in his system, he’s feeling tense. He needs something to take the edge off. He gets dressed and throws himself down on the bed, grabbing the throw blanket that stays at the foot of the bed and wrapping it around himself. He sighs. “FRIDAY, where’s Stephen?”
“Doctor Strange is still at the Avenger’s compound, Boss,” she answers. “He is in Training Room B with Miss Maximoff.”
“Hmm.” He thinks there’s enough time for him to take a nap. Maybe he was overdoing it with that last Quaalude. The previous two were still in his system and the latest on top has already begun to make him drowsy.
He sleeps and doesn’t know for how long, but Stephen is in the kitchen making something when he wakes up. “That smells amazing, what is it?” he asks. He scratches at his stomach and yawns. He’s still sleepy, the sedative making his mind pleasantly hazy. He feels both alive and like he’s sleepwalking, like he’s wading through a swampy pool of still water.
The sorcerer smiles. “Singapore noodles with firecracker chicken.”
Tony slips in behind him, a hand resting lightly on his hip and he takes a piece of chicken from the pan and pops it in his mouth. It’s hot and the flavor is sharp and most definitely firecracker-esc.
“Tony,” Stephen gasps. “That’s hot.”
“Mmh, yes, and it’s good. You’ve become a much better cook since you started hanging out with Clint.”
“Why thank you. Speaking of, where’s he?”
“He headed home,” Tony tells him. “He was a very good babysitter today. I only had one public meltdown.”
“Good.”
Tony runs his hand across Stephen’s abdomen. “I don’t need a keeper, Stephen.”
The sorcerer hums. “I know,” he says. “But forgive me for being cautious.”
Tony rolls his eyes and, impulsively, he shuts off the stove and takes the rubber spatula from Stephen’s hand and sets it on the counter.
Stephen freezes and hums. “The chicken was done anyway.”
“You wanted to talk.”
“You choose this exact moment.”
“My will to have this discussion is very brief and very fleeting. The window of opportunity has already begun to close,” he says. “Talk quickly.”
“You were mad at me,” Stephen blurts. “Why?”
Tony shrugs and answers shortly, “I was drunk.”
“Why were you drinking?”
“Anxiety.”
“Because of Rogers?”
“Yes and no.”
Stephen nods. “If it had gotten that bad why didn’t you come to me?” he asks. “I’m a doctor-”
“You were a doctor,” Tony says with a roll of his eyes.
“I am a doctor, Tony,” he insists sternly and more than moderately offended. Tony knows he’s struck a nerve but he doesn’t know why he’s being so cruel. “That knowledge doesn’t just evaporate because my fucking hands don’t work. Try a different excuse.”
“I’m Tony Stark. My breakdowns make headlines. I’m not used to having you.”
Stephen’s forehead creases in a deep set frown. “What do you mean?”
“Have you met you?” he asks in disbelief. “You’re…” he waves his hand erratically at the sorcerer. “And I’m me. I… I forget.” He chews his lip till he tastes copper on his tongue. “I forget that you won’t hate me because I’m not- because I can’t be everything that I’m supposed to be.” He feels incredibly detached from the things he’s saying. The last Quaalude is really giving him something, he can practically feel his blood singing in his veins. His arms feel heavy like they’ve been tied down with weights.
Tony is caught by surprise when Stephen takes him in his hands, his thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone, the pad of his finger soft and smooth. He plants a kiss on Tony’s forehead, on his nose, on each of his eyelids, and chastely on the curve of his lip. Tony’s eyes fall shut and he exhales.
“If I have not made clear just how much I love you,” Stephen says, “then I blame myself for that.”
“Stephen-” He doesn’t want to listen to Stephen stand here and profess himself to Tony. He isn’t quite sure he’s built to hear that.
“I’m not perfect, Tony,” he says. “You’re doing yourself a real injustice if you think you are somehow unworthy of me. I’m not any better than anyone else.”
“Would you be saying this pre-fairy powers?” Tony ventures with a small smile.
Stephen snorts. “Maybe not, but if I’d known you? You would have knocked me down a peg, I’m sure.” He runs his hand through Tony’s hair. “Have dinner.”
“That sounds good.” Tony sways on his way to sit at the kitchen table but catches himself against the oak. He looks back at Stephen but he has his back turned as he plates their dinner. Tony thinks he really must have overdone, but he’ll take the fucked equilibrium if it takes the edge off. The lack of anxiety and fear and the sense that the world is crashing down on him is a fair trade for a little dizziness. He just needs to put a little more effort into being himself.
Stephen sets their plates down at the table and takes his seat, smiling up at the mechanic.
Tony returns his grin with a lazy one of his own.
“Tony, what is with you?” Stephen stumbles as the back of his calves connect with the bed frame and he falls back on the mattress. His laugh breaks into a moan as Tony latches onto the juncture of his neck just below his jaw. He throws his head back and runs his hands under Tony’s shirt causing the man to shiver.
Tony moans and lets Stephen hoist him higher up the bed. Normally, Tony would object to being lifted and tossed around, but with Stephen, it’s oddly sexy. He grinds against the sorcerer and soon he’s being flipped and the man is above him, lifting his shirt over his head and tugging his pants down.
“Get your clothes off,” Tony insists. Stephen complies and soon Tony is a moaning mess of incoherence and drug-enhanced pleasure.
They lay in bed after and Tony swims in and out of hazy consciousness. He falls asleep, but he doesn't know for how long before familiar dreams come to haunt him. He wakes with a start, his muscles tense and his head swimming.
"Tony?"
"Mmh fine," he grunts and rolls out of bed.
“Don’t get up,” Stephen objects, grasping lazily for Tony, but he’s already out of reach.
“I’ll be back, I just need to pee,” he says.
Stephen huffs. “You don’t really need to close… the door.”
Tony already has the door shut before Stephen can finish his complaint. He flicks the lock and reaches into the box he has grown far too familiar with. He takes out the pill bottle he has moved the Quaaludes to and pops one in his mouth, swallowing it down with the cup he keeps by the sink. He runs his hands through his hair and tries to make the sweat drenched mess a little more presentable. He’s running on an orgasmic high, but he needs the downer to keep himself from a freakout.
The tolerance he’s built up makes his comedowns overwhelming. He had one a few days ago after spending too long at the compound and the paranoia and anxiety were so overwhelming he felt like the walls and ceiling were coming down on him. He finds himself taking three or four a day now, it’s a dependency he shouldn’t be comfortable with, but has yet to object to.
Either from a strong sense fo apathy or a lack of energy to try.
He comes back to bed and curls in beside Stephen, letting the sorcerer wrap himself around him.
“About last week,” Stephen begins.
He groans and sits up. “Stephen-”
The sorcerer hurries to sit up as well. “I’m serious.”
“Okay. What?”
“I love you and you deserve to hear that more often and if my inattentiveness to you played any part in your drinking, then I am so sorry.”
“I know that you love me,” Tony says. He knows that, he does. On a good day, he doesn’t question that, but it’s the anxiety and the loathing that pull everything into question. He can not help it and he despises it. He needs the reminder, as pathetic as it sounds. He hates that part of himself, wants to cut it away.
“I love you and I respect you,” Stephen tells him.
“Do you like me?” It sounds childish, but he can’t resist.
“I love you and I like you.”
Tony laughs. “I like you, too.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. His forehead rests against Tony’s.
“You won’t.”
“I’ll stay if you stay.”
Tony giggles. That sounds like a wonderful idea. He is cripplingly afraid of losing the ones he cannot live without. Stephen grew to the top of that list with a surprising rapidity that it is frightening.
The sorcerer hushes him gently with a delicate kiss, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip once he pulls away. “Marry me,” he breathes.
Tony feels his heart hammering in his chest, pounding deafeningly in his ears like a baseline. He has to of heard him incorrectly; there has to be a mistake. Tony can’t have possibly…
“Your eyes are dilated,” Stephen says. He tilts Tony’s face up towards him, and Tony blinks against the daylight that streams in. His hands brush the fringe from Tony’s face and he runs his thumb over Tony’s supraorbital bone. “Have you hit your head?” he asks softly. “You’ve just healed from a concussion, if you’ve hit your head it could be serious.” He feels around the base of Tony’s skull but doesn’t find anything.
Tony just shakes his head from within Stephen’s grip, his eyes never leaving Stephen’s face.
Marry me.
Marry me.
Marry me.
“Tony? Are you… are you high right now?” he asks.
“What?”
Stephen’s expression is stone cold and lacking any of the tender emotions it held just moments ago. “Have you taken something? If you are on something you need to tell me.”
Tony binks slowly. “It…”
Stephen’s face closes off as it clicks into place for him. “Tony?”
He gets defensive. “What-? No.”
Stephen’s lips become thin, pressed lines and he throws the bedsheets aside and gets out of bed. Stephen plants his hands on his hips and he begins to pace.
“I’m not on anything!” he shouts. Tony swallows thickly, watching him grow well and truly angry, and angry with Tony at that. That’s something new and it frightens him.
“What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Stephen shouts. His face is practically red with his growing rage. He points at the billionaire accusingly. “Not about this, Tony!
He didn’t mean to get out of control, it is dysmorphic self-medication and nothing more. He knows, however, that he is fucking up and there is no retreating. He feels panic rising as it claws up his throat, but it's muted from the pills and feels distant and belonging to someone not him.
“In the bathroom,” he says. His voice is delicately even and his hands shake violently with fright from his own actions. “Under the sink.”
Tony watches Stephen’s heart shatter and he feels like a criminal for causing such a beautifully brilliant man so much pain. He extracts the box and opens it with wide, shocked, and disbelieving eyes. Christ, he’s a terrible fucking person. Stephen doesn’t deserve any of this. Tony did this to him.
“Are these Quaaludes?” Stephen’s shoulders drop and his expression is utterly crushed and he inspects every pill bottle and baggie Tony keeps. He doesn’t seem to recognize any of the other pills Tony has kept and scarcely touched, but the disappointment wafting off of him is insurmountable. “Oh, Tony.”
He is crying, hot tears that roll down his cheeks and fall in heavy droplets. Tony wipes them away quickly with trembling hands. Stephen sits on the edge of the mattress and kisses his forehead forcefully. Tony wants to pull away and hide in shame. A sob gets caught in his throat and he hiccups with enough force to rattle his chest. This scares him and Tony hates all of it. He didn’t intend to make this into something, he is not proud of any of this.
“Hey,” Stephen assures him, hushing him softly. “It’s okay, Love. Are there more in the house?” he asks.
Tony nods slowly. “In… in my jacket. The living room.” He wets his lips and watches Stephen nod before promising he will be right back and rushing from the room. Tony scrubs a hand across his face and groans, he feels utterly defeated - and a little nauseous. He should have balanced out that Quaalude with some uppers. He thinks he still has some Adderall left.
He shakes that train of thought and closes his eyes against his shame. He wishes he wasn’t such a fucking wreck.
Tony brought illegal substances into the space they share and Stephen hasn’t even fucking noticed. He blames himself entirely. He is a fucking doctor and he didn’t notice that Tony had been getting stoned on fucking Quaaludes and high off of god knows what the fuck else. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with him? How fucking blind do you have to be?
“Fuck,” Stephen curses. He’s found the drugs in Tony’s jacket and he stares at them where they rest on the granite countertop. He feels like he should call someone, but who? Pepper, probably. She has always been the one to handle Tony at his worse. He wishes he had Banner’s number. Tony trusts him, he has been someone Tony has felt comfortable divulging all things personal to. Stephen wants to be that, but he’s not certain that he is.
He steals himself and grabs the drugs before returning to the bedroom. Tony is still in bed, looking down solemnly at his hands. Stephen takes the box and the baggie and dumps them into the toilet.
“What are you doing?” Tony asks.
“I’m throwing these out,” he says. “Problem?”
Tony shakes his head, but looks very much like he does, in fact, have a problem.
Stephen grinds his teeth till he feels his jaw muscles jump. So he’s been taking them long enough to develop some degree of attachment; a degree of dependency. Stephen curses to himself and flushes the bowl. “What do you want me to do?” Stephen asks. His hands are on his hips and looks at Tony sternly but openly.
He shakes his head. “I don’t…” he sighs heavily. “I don't know.”
Stephen wets his lips and shrugs uselessly. “I don’t know either, Tony. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here. My instinct is to throw you in rehab, but I don’t-”
“I do not need rehab,” Tony insists.
“No? Because this is a relapse, Tony. This is textbook relapse.”
“I’ve already done rehab. It doesn’t work.”
“Hospital then.”
“What?”
“Clearly your bougie rehab centers aren’t cutting it,” Stephen says.
“My what?” Tony shakes his head. “Look, I’m not going to some looney house! Fuck that!”
“That’s your best shot, Tony!”
“Locking me up with the crazies!?”
“What do you recommend!?” Stephen groans and presses his open palms against his eyes and pressing. He feels like he has no control here and he’s terrified. “Tony, I cannot do this with you if you carry on like this. I am not going to watch you kill yourself! I need you to want to change.”
“You told me you would never ask me to change.”
“I’m not asking you to stop being you,” Stephen argues. “I’m asking you to stop actively running yourself into the ground. You’ve made me a better person,” he says, “a happier person. Why won’t you let me do the same for you?”
“I don’t need your help!” Tony shouts.
Stephen clenches his jaw, his lips pressed tightly together into a thin, pale line. “Fine.” Stephen grabs his shirt from the floor and marches from the room.
He takes the elevator down to the private carpark, walks directly to his own car and throws the driver's door open. He's practically out of breath as he sits in the leather seat, his hands clenching tight around the steering wheel. He starts the car, but he cannot bring himself to leave. His fingers flex and tremble and he feels like screaming.
So he does.
He yells and he rages against the world and the sick irony of fate and he slams his open palms and clenched fists against the steering wheel. He slams down on the horn, reveling in the echoing shout it releases as it cascades through the garage, hardly heard to his ears over his own screams. Tears fall freely down his cheeks. He doesn't stop until his throat is raw and aches and his heart stops erratically fluttering in his chest.
He feels drained of strength and several lifetimes older. He rests his forehead against the wheel and swallows his sobs.
Tony watches Stephen storm away and listens to the sounds of him leaving, he listens to him take the elevator and soon the penthouse is encased in suffocating and violent silence. It’s heavy and it’s choking him, clawing down his throat and up his nose and seeping into his ears.
Tony sits there with only the sounds of his own heavy breathing before he frantically flies out of bed, grabbing his pants and quickly pulling them on. He nearly trips and steadies himself against the wall. He chases after Stephen. “Hey, wait!"
Tony takes the elevator down after Stephen.
He finds him sitting in his car, sitting as still as a piece sculpted by Michelangelo himself and just as devastatingly beautiful. He looks unseeingly ahead at the concrete wall through his windshield.
Tony sucks on his teeth and wets his dry lips before approaching the car and climbing into the passenger seat.
Stephen looks at him and his face is pale, but his eyes are rimmed with a violent shade of red.
Tony feels like a monster. He can feel his heart beating behind the reactor so loudly he thinks Stephen must hear it too.
“What?” Stephen’s solid tone leaves no room for hesitation. Tony fully believes that Stephen will leave this moment and he will never see him again if he doesn't say the correct thing.
“I love you.”
Stephen shakes his head. “What does it matter, Tony?” he sounds so sad.
“I want to be better,” he says. “I… thought that I was, after I met you; because of you. But- I guess being with someone doesn’t miraculously fix you. I thought that- because- I thought that because I had you everything else would be better.” That's not how crazy works, though. Tony's nightmares and all the little monsterous, grotesque things that haunt him in every shadow of a poorly lit room does not simply go away because he is in love.
“That’s not fair.”
“I know that.”
Stephen hangs his head, frowning forlornly. “I just want what is best for you. And if that means that I lock you up in a looney bin, then that’s just what we do.”
Tony feels like his chest is being pressed upon at the very thought like he’s suffocating. “It won’t come to that.” The words taste chalky on his tongue.
"I just don't know."