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Tony Stark woke up alone.
He rolled over, expecting Pepper to be there in the bed beside him, but then he remembered that she was on a business trip in Iowa, and wouldn’t be here for the next few days, and that she was insanely busy and told him that she wouldn’t be able to text or call, so happy early birthday.
Oh right. May twenty-ninth. Birthday. Happy birthday Tony Stark.
Tony smiled bitterly, throwing the covers off. He didn’t know why he was so disappointed when he had JARVIS check his personal messages to find that there were none. Pepper had told him that she would be busy, and Rhodey was away as well, somewhere far away from a cell tower. He had also wished him a happy early birthday and promised to take him out to a bar and get smashed when he got back. Pepper and Rhodey were the only two who really celebrated on his birthdays, at the very least a phone call or a text, but now they were both gone.
He didn’t expect much from the team, either.
He shaved up, washed his face, cleared the sleep and gunk out of his eyes, gelled and brushed his hair. Usually he didn’t pay too much attention to his appearance, just trusted himself to look fine with his usual ‘just run my hand through my hair and call it done,’ but today was special. He would treat himself today, take a day off, maybe go out for bubble tea or a burger. Pick out something small from the bakery, or curl up with a movie on a couch with a cup of chamomile tea. God, he hadn’t taken a day for himself in a while.
True to his prediction, when he arrived at the communal kitchen, dressed and sharp, freshly shaved, the team didn’t even look up. Not that he expected them to remember his birthday. He never told them, didn’t feel the need to. If they really cared, they’d ask, but none of them did.
Clint was sitting on the couch beside Natasha, both of them devouring a bowl of Lucky Charms each. Natasha was eating it normally, and Clint was picking out the marshmallows, like he usually did. Their eyes were glued to the TV, morning cartoons on the highest sound setting, blaring through the speakers. Who knew that grown men and women still enjoyed watching Bobby’s World?
Steve was reading the paper at the breakfast counter, a very large plate of poached eggs on toast beside him, with a tall glass of orange juice by his elbow. Tony narrowed his eyes when he saw the fact that Steve was reading a newspaper, then shrugged it off.
“Old man Rogers, still reading the paper. We’ve got shiny tablets and apps for these things now, in fact, I’m pretty sure I gave you one,” Tony reminded him, opening the cupboards for a quick meal that should suffice until lunch. Unfortunately, Thor had all of the pop tarts on a plate that he’d claimed as his own, so just popping something into the toaster wouldn’t work.
“It feels less fake,” Steve said, folding up the large sheet of paper and placing it beside him. “The Internet could be hacked, and I don’t know, it just feels safer.”
“All news is fake these days. Even in the dead-compressed-tree-pulp that you call the newspaper,” Tony quipped, searching the fridge instead. “Who ate all of the strawberries?”
“Sorry, didn’t know you wanted them,” Bruce said sheepishly, shoving a metal bowl filled with washed, red strawberries across the breakfast bar, toward Tony. “You can have them if you’d like.”
“It’s okay,” Tony nudged the bowl away from him, back to its original position. He turned around and grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl, peeling it and getting the gross orange peel stuck under his nails. He’d be smelling like orange for a solid two hours after this. There was a reason he never ate, he always had something to complain about, which annoyed him along with everyone around him.
But today would be different. Today was his birthday. Today Tony Stark was going to shut up and suck it up because he didn’t want people mad at him on his birthday.
“You guys up to anything today?” Tony asked, breaking off an orange section and popping it in his mouth. He bit down right on an orange seed and cursed, spitting it out in the sink, but didn’t say anything more.
“Lazy day. Unless, of course, we get called in,” Clint answered, peeling his eyes away from the television. “Stark, I’ve been meaning to ask; could I get the explosive arrows fixed? They don’t respond to the command, they just explode whenever they feel like it,” he explained.
“Sure. I’ll have them to you, in say, two days time? I’ve been meaning to just take a day to relax, and I was kind of planning on it being today,” Tony said nervously, but Clint waved him off.
“No rush,” he said, turning his attention back to the TV. Tony sighed in relief. Nobody was mad at him. Well, at least not yet.
“Stark,” Steve said, his eyebrows low and judgmental. “We could get called in at anytime. Say one of these arrows exploded while still in his hands; that could severely injure him,” he stood up from his spot at the breakfast bar and towered menacingly over Tony.
“So you’re saying I need to work on his arrows right now, at this moment, why am I not downstairs already tinkering with explosive things,” Tony said, unable to keep himself from getting slightly annoyed, and crossed his arms defensively over his chest, cursing at himself internally for not being taller, not that he could help it.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You know, there’s no reason to have to stand over me. Use your words,” Tony huffed, turning around and walking out of the room, unable to think of something else to keep the conversation going. Nothing clever, witty, nothing to somehow win himself back this day of rest that he’d been planning on. Nobody could refuse when Captain America himself asked for something to be done or taken care of, especially when he gave the ‘disappointed eyebrow’ look.
So that’s why Tony found himself in his workshop, pulling up the old blueprints for the arrows to try and figure out what was wrong, handling explosive material, hard at work, all alone.
On his birthday.
--
He had figured it out, as usual.
Sure, it had taken three hours, but he found the flaw in the design; it wasn’t actually the arrows, it was the remote, with the signal time. It was irregular, the signal either too weak or too strong at times, disrupting the other arrows if it was too strong, and taking longer if it was too weak. It would be an easy fix, he’d been fixing remotes since he was four.
Tony mentally patted himself on the back and decided to go up for lunch, to see what the team was up to, and to let Clint know that the arrows would be done earlier than anticipated. Maybe his day was salvaged after all. He could still have lunch with the team, fix the arrows after, deliver them, and still find time for himself. Heck, the day seemed to be looking up.
He wiped his hands on the already greased-covered rag, fixed his hair so it didn’t look like he was running his hands through it every five seconds in frustration, and made his way upstairs. He could smell cooking and hear laughter, which meant that they were all already in the kitchen.
Tony stepped into the room and all noise went quiet. There was food laid out, sure, but they clearly weren’t planning on sharing, least of all with him. They all just sat there, not talking, staring at their own plates full of food, as if ashamed that they didn’t include Tony. Maybe they were. He felt bad, as if he was intruding on something, but the feeling went away, because heck, it was his birthday, he deserved to be a bit selfish today.
“Team meeting without me?” he raised an eyebrow, but kept the edge out of his voice so it just sounded like he was noticing something.
“Stark, we weren’t sure if you were going to be joining us,” Steve was quick to stand up and find an excuse. “Make a sandwich and sit down?”
Tony glanced at all of their faces. Not only was the only free chair occupied by Natasha’s feet, they all had pained, forced smiles on their faces. Except for Natasha and Bruce. She was never one to smile anyway, and he had a genuine smile on his face because he seemed to enjoy Tony’s company, or he was just being polite. Tony just shook his head, walking over to the fridge as if to find an excuse to be there. “It’s fine. Don’t worry,” he searched the shelves quickly and found an unopened water bottle. He was suddenly not hungry, a contrast to what he was feeling before.
“You sure?” Bruce asked. Tony looked up at the rest of the team’s faces, and a pang went through his heart when he saw that they were all relieved.
“Yeah. I’ve got Clint’s arrows to work on,” he shrugged, taking the water bottle from the fridge, his hands shaking. He left the room without another word, feeling eyes boring into his back as he walked toward the elevator. As soon as the doors closed behind him, he let his posture slump, leaning heavily against the handrails as the elevator slowly went down.
Lunch without him. Not that it was any different than how they’d been acting before, but today was Tony’s birthday. He had hoped, that maybe, just maybe, they would have at least invited him to eat with them. Communal dinners weren’t uncommon, Steve called it ‘team bonding time’, and made it a mandatory once-a-week thing, but Tony never knew that they were having team lunches without him. It had been a while since he’d invited them all to stay, and it didn’t look like they were planning on telling him about the lunches any time soon.
Tony typed in his pin to his workshop, planning on finishing the arrows in the next hour to get them out of the way. Then, he would drink, drink until he forgot about today, until the numbness that comes with alcohol gets rid of the pain blooming in his chest.
“Y’know, JARVIS?” Tony asked his AI, sitting down in his spinney chair and cracking open the stupid plastic water bottle.
“What, sir?”
“I’m beginning to think that they wouldn’t even care if they knew it was my birthday,” he huffed sadly, turning back to his work.
--
“Here’s your arrows. All fixed.”
“Thanks man,” Clint grinned, pausing the game of Mario Kart on the TV. There were some groans of annoyance, especially from Natasha, who was in first place.
Tony smiled, not even caring that there was a Mario Kart tournament without him; he was just grateful that he could finally return to his space and drink, far away from everyone. He just needed a way out. He had swapped the water to a bottle of beer while he was making adjustments to the arrows, and was anxious to return to it.
“Hang on; is that alcohol on your breath?” Clint asked, somewhat confused. “It’s five PM, what’re you drinking for?”
“Wait; you were drinking? While you were fixing Barton’s arrows?” Steve stood up from the couch, making his way to Tony. “What were you thinking?”
“Look, Cap, I can solve complicated equations and build complex motors while intoxicated, I can assure you that the arrows are completely safe,” Tony spat, squaring up to Steve.
“That’s not the point! There’s a reason people aren’t allowed to drink and drive, it impairs their thinking abilities!” Steve retorted, his voice raising and the disappointed eyebrow coming back.
“Oh, like you would know! You can’t even get drunk! Your metabolism is too strong!”
“You’re still missing the point!”
“Then enlighten me!”
“What if you’d made a miscalculation! What if it maimed Barton? Or killed him!”
“I told you! It won’t, I’ve gone over them like, three thousand times-”
“You made a mistake during the initial construction, why would this time be different?!”
“Boys!” Natasha warned, stepping in between them.
“Stay out of this, Romanoff,” Tony spat, his voice deadly low.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she glared at him.
“Stark, if Barton gets hurt because of your stupidity-” Steve warned him.
“Which he won’t!” Tony interrupted, losing control. “Why don’t you trust me?!”
“You’re always making rash decisions, throwing yourself around, I can’t even trust you with yourself!”
“They’re not rash, they’re calculating!”
“No. They’re spontaneous. Even you know that,” Steve said. “I don’t know what I signed up for when I started working with a Stark, but you certainly weren’t what I was expecting.”
A flash of realization crossed Tony’s face when he realized what was unsaid. That was a low blow. Even Steve knew, and he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
“I’m sorry I’m not Howard,” Tony said, and it sounded broken even to his ears.
Then he lunged at him.
Natasha was quick to interfere, grabbing Tony’s shoulders and shoving him to the ground, and even amid his best efforts, he soon gave up, knowing that without his suit, he was nothing. He couldn’t fight her. His head hit the floor hard, and he stayed still.
He stared up at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights burning his eyes as he lay under Natasha’s grip. When he stopped struggling, she let him go.
“You’re nothing without your armour,” Steve said, not a hint of remorse in his voice.
Way to kick him while he’s down.
“I know,” Tony said softly, getting up on his feet. “And you know what, Cap?”
Steve gave him a questionable eyebrow raise.
“In some ways, I’m just like Howard,” Tony smiled, but there was no humour, no emotion behind his eyes. It was a cold stare, and more of a grimace than a smile.
He turned his back, and retreated out of the room. He held his head high and his chin up, but underneath his ruffled and seemingly lost appearance, he was still fuming.
--
Tony sat at his usual bar stool, on his private floor.
No one was allowed on his floor. Not Pepper, not Rhodey, no anyone. It was his space. JARVIS would of course let them in if the AI deemed it necessary or if Tony requested it (which he never did), but there were no pin codes given out, no overrides. It was only explicit permission or if he was in a life-threatening state.
He goes here whenever he wants to be alone, and ran out of things to work on. When everything became too much, this was his place. It had a bed, a bathroom, a bar, a TV, a kitchen, and other distractions. It held a sauna at one point but then he realized he was just splurging and that he’d never use it. This floor was only to be alone when he needed to be.
He poured shot after shot down his throat, just waiting until it all hit him, just waiting until it could numb all of the pain, all of the conversations he’d had today, everything. He wanted to forget. Forget that today even happened, forget that he’d expected something special because it was his birthday, forget that he’d even gotten his hopes up in the first place. Most of his days are spent wasting away, getting yelled at and beaten up, so why would his birthday make anything different?
He got up from his stool, using the stool to support himself, and grabbed a few empty beer and wine bottles. He needed satisfaction. He needed to watch something break under his own hand, he was still mad, he still needed to hurt, he still needed to get anger out somehow. He punched the wall beside the cabinets for good measure, breaking through the plaster and feeling the pain splinter through his hand, going up to his jaw, making him wince, but he welcomed the pain.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, examining his bleeding knuckles. Once the pain had subsided and bit, he threw a beer bottle into the wall, watching it shatter into a million pieces, glass going everywhere.
He threw the next one, putting all of his strength into it, and it hit a mirror, making the glass bottle break along with the mirror shards, and suddenly he was chucking bottle after bottle into the wall, then a few shot glasses and champagne flutes, and then he was on the floor, sobbing, clutching a wine bottle in his shaking hand, bringing it up to his lips in between breaths, and he just couldn’t. He didn’t know how he got on the floor, he didn’t know when he stopped throwing things, and he didn’t know why he was crying.
He drained the wine bottle and threw it as well, but he was weak and intoxicated, so it didn’t break. It rolled to a stop on top of the large pile of glass, and he crawled over to it to finish the job. Throw it properly. Break it. Break everything.
As he picked up the bottle, he noticed the broken shards of the mirror, catching glimpses of his face. He was a mess, his face blotchy and pink from drinks and crying, and there was blood on his forehead from where he had wiped the sweat away with his bleeding hand, and he picked up a shard, and it got all bloody, and that’s when he realized that there were tiny pieces of glass embedded into his hands. He put down the bottle and just stared at the broken mirror shard, reflecting his face. His broken and bloody and red face.
“I’m a mess, he sobbed, picking up another mirror shard, getting more glass on his hands, making them even bloodier. He couldn’t even feel the pain anymore.
He couldn’t feel anything but the tears rolling down his face.
--
Downstairs, the Mario Kart game was long forgotten, and the news was turned on, a drum of noise in the background of conversation, cooking, and in Steve’s case, a dull anger still inside of him.
“Guys, Stark’s on the news,” Clint said, pointing at the TV, and all of the attention was brought to the screen, and sure enough a photo of Tony at a recent press conference was showing.
“What did he do this time?” Steve huffed angrily. No one really knew where he had gone after the fight, so he could’ve gone out and caused a fight, could’ve been found intoxicated, or who knew? Maybe a scandal in the business world. With Stark, it could be anything.
“Today on famous birthdays, it is Anthony Edward Stark’s forty-second birthday. Tony Stark, most known for his Iron Man alias, is also part of Stark Industries, the son of Howard Stark, who started the Industry. He has made considerable contributions to the world of science and technology, some of his most notable inventions being-”
All jaws dropped, and everyone turned to each other, but it was like looking into a mirror. Everyone had the same dumbfounded expression, a mixture of guilt and surprise.
“Did anyone know?” Steve asked, all the anger he still held against Tony melting away.
Everyone shook their heads.
“God,” Bruce buried his face in his hands. “We didn’t exactly make it easy for him today, either.”
“JARVIS?” Steve asked hesitantly, staring up at the ceiling, even though he knew he didn’t have to. Just a habit.
“Yes?”
“Tell Tony that we wish him happy birthday. Is he okay?”
“Sir is currently very intoxicated, but I will pass along the message,” the AI replied.
“Is he okay?” Clint asked again.
“I cannot answer that question. Sir’s orders,” JARVIS said apologetically.
Steve swallowed. “So is that a no?”
JARVIS didn’t answer, and the silence spoke volumes.
--
“Sir, the team wishes you a happy birthday.”
Tony laughed a cold and humourless laugh. He had migrated over to the couch, and was now focused on removing the glass from his hands the best he could with shaking hands, blurring vision, and tweezers.
“Happy birthday?” Tony asked, pulling the last visible glass shard from his skin and placing it on the coffee table in front of him. He picked up the bottle of whiskey that he had grabbed with the tweezers, knowing that he’d need more alcohol to get him through it.
He stood up, swaying, and stumbled over to the large windows. The sun was just setting, it was nearing eight. The orange glow made everything eerie, but beautiful, but he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate it. Everything was dulled down. His senses, his vision, his thinking process. Everything was dull, including the pain in his chest and his hands. Still present, but just… dimmed.
He sat down in a chair near the window, raising the bottle, as if he was toasting.
“Happy birthday, Tony Stark,” he said, bringing the bottle to his lips.