It was hard to figure out what made him flinch the most - the sight of his mother’s recipes, or the fact that Dylan slammed them down. His heart felt like it compressed tightly in his chest, but a sort of anger surged through him as well because Dylan was his son but how dare he treat the recipes like that. They were his mother’s. It made the drunken apathy disappear as a muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched it shut. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, or if he would have reacted like this even sober just because of how protective he was over anything that regarded his mother, but at least it was something over the numbness he had been feeling all this month.
Passing a hand along his face, both to calm himself down and make himself see a little straighter, he leaned against the threshold of the kitchen and let out a sigh under his breath.
“Yeah,” he answered a bit more quietly than he had expected, but just cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but hadn’t he said that he wanted Dylan to know more about his parents? How was that supposed to happen if he didn’t talk to him about them.
God, he suddenly felt sick.
“Sometimes I helped her. When I was younger; when I got older I wasn’t... I wasn’t really around.” After the pause, his voice didn’t sound so flat. It sounded a little raw, but it was hard to tell if it was because of the annoyance about the recipes, the memories, the alcohol, or all of the above.
“I’m going to...shower. You’re right. I need to--... I’ll be back in a bit.”
Good. He wanted him annoyed. Hell, he wanted him angry. Dylan was tired of being the only one of the two of them feeling everything. It was childish to act this way, and in a way he suspected his mother wouldn't approve. She'd always stressed that you speak your mind, but Dylan was bordering on passive aggressive. Of course it was quickly becoming more aggressive than passive.
There was a look of concern on his face when Tony spoke. He looked green, and for a moment he was reminded of how...fragile that Tony had looked during the summer. God, Tony would flinch at that word being used to describe him. Dylan swallowed hard, but nodded his head. "Yeah, okay."
It wasn't until Tony was out of the kitchen that Dylan's hands smacked against the sink furiously. The anger was colliding with the concern and frustration. Was he even doing the right thing here? What the fuck did he even know about the things that Tony had survived? He was nineteen and had lived a pretty sheltered and normal life.
No. He wasn't going to make excuses for Tony. Once the pasta and salad was ready, he went to work doing what he had planned all along. There was a reason he'd picked a fast meal. He knew that Tony was not going to be happy when he discovered what his son was up to.
The glass decanters were the first to go. Tipping them like he was pouring out flat soda instead of his father's expensive scotch, the amber liquid circled the drain. There was more than a small sense of satisfaction at watching it disappear. It was a big house which meant the search was on. He had several bottles of it lined up on the counter, pouring them out one by one as he waited for Tony to finish up.
The only reason Tony took a while in coming back to the kitchen was that as soon as he got into the bathroom, the contents of his stomach rebelled against staying down because all he could think of on his way to his room was his mother. His father. Even Obadiah. Everything he passed in the hallways reminded him of them, and by the time he got to the second floor it was too much. For a second he could swear he could hear her in the kitchen, that he could smell her cooking, and that had been what had done it. It was just too much, and even if his diet had been more liquid than solid over the past - or maybe because of it - he couldn’t win over the nausea.
Once he was finished showering, shaving and changing into clean clothes, he felt a bit more human but he felt far too full of emotions for his liking. He still looked tired and strung out, and his skin was still too pale from getting sick, but he ignored it as his eyes hovered over the mirror.
Walking into the kitchen, as soon as the smell of scotch hit his nose, he stopped dead in his tracks. Especially since he saw Dylan dumping it, and he was sure his heart actually STOPPED at the sight.
Thank goodness for the arc reactor, at least that kept it going.
“...excuse me, but what in the hell are you doing.”
Oh, Tony was not pleased. At all. Dylan wanted to see Tony react? Well, here you go Dyl.
Storming over to him, he reached to take the decanter away.
"Making sure that next December I'm not using you being gone as an excuse to self-destruct." There was heat in his words when Tony stormed over. It was the actual reaching for the decanter that made something inside Dylan snap. "Seriously? It's that important to you that you're going to FIGHT me for it?"
The decanter was empty now so he shoved it at him. Harder than he meant to, and when it slipped out of both of their hands, he winced at the sound of glass shattering. It seemed to cover the entire floor all at once, and Dylan just stared at it.
"I'm sure you can buy ten thousand more. Dock it from my inheritance. You can write it to me in a letter if you want to make it all official." The moment the words came out, he took a step back toward the kitchen sink. "I...didn't mean, I mean I did. I did mean that. Look at YOU. GOD, DAD, THEY'RE DEAD, BUT YOU AREN'T. SOMETIMES I THINK YOU REALLY WISH YOU WERE."
The shouting stopped as fast as it came on. Shaking with anger, he went back to opening the bottles and pouring them down the drain. If Tony grabbed the bottles away, then what was he going to do? Physically fight Iron Man over scotch bottles? This was ridiculous.
"Everything you've told me about them, showed me of them, points to the fact they would be horrified by seeing you do this to yourself. And maybe you are worse this month, I'm not making light of it. I'm not. I wish I knew them, and I can't take that from you, but I just wish you'd wake up and look at me for a second. I'm here fighting with you over scotch that is older than probably my grandfather would be. You just...it's like you want to save all of us, but you don't give a shit about yourself. Just stop for a damn minute and take yourself out of your shoes and put yourself in theirs." He looked up at Tony and saw the same intensity in his gaze. Genetics. He has his mother's eyes, but the emotion was easily the same as his father's.
"If you'd died and I did this to myself every year because of it, would you be okay with that? Is that what you'd want from me? Or would you want me to do what he said to you in that reel. You were what they loved more than anything, and I hate the smell of scotch. I hate when you're like this."
Tony didn't give a damn about the decanter breaking. It startled him, sure, but was he upset? Not really. Not about that. But when Dylan made that comment about the letter, the look in his eyes was one that Tony had seen a lot while growing up whenever he would piss off his father. It was a look that only Starks seemed to have in moments like this, when their anger won out over everything else.
"I KNOW THEY'RE DEAD," he snapped in a way he had never snapped at his son before. Maybe it was true, sons always followed their father's footsteps.
God, that was a terrifying thought.
"You don't have to remind me. What do you want me to do, Dylan. Tell me." His own anger, defensiveness, and even hurt and resentment was bubbling so close to the surface that it was obvious in his voice. "What do you want me to do. I have been staying inside for you. So you won't worry that I'm out there." And while Dylan might not see that as Tony taking care of himself, to him it was. He wasn't out flying or driving drunk. No matter how much he wanted to face some explosions for the rush and the risk of it, he was staying put. He wasn't really suicidal.
...right?
It was hard to figure out who he was suddenly angrier at. Tony himself wanted to throw a tantrum, the one he had wanted to throw when it had happened but had kept buried down while he drank himself blind for the funeral and then the lost years in Europe before taking over the company. Despite all the sadness, all the grief, he was angry. Furious at his parents for dying. It was irrational, sure, but fuck he was suddenly so angry that he couldn't see straight. Maybe it was the alcohol still running through his veins, maybe Dylan had scratched too hard at the surface and unearthed something.
Maybe...
Taking one of the empty bottles on the counter, he threw it across the kitchen to crash against the wall away from Dylan.
When he spoke again, he didn't raise his voice but the edge of grief, bitterness and anger was there. Sharper and more real than he could remember feeling. "No matter what I want, no matter what I do, it doesn't change things. They're the ones that died. The ones that--"
Maria. Howard. Right now even Obadiah, Yinsen. The anger boiled down to nothing, and the survivor's guilt almost swallowed him whole.
Clenching his jaw shut, he choked out a dry humorless chuckle. He stared at the empty decanters and bottles. "...you know... You want to do this, fine. Do whatever you want."
Did he like it? No, but all the emotions he was feeling, all this vulnerability was making him want to lash out in the worst way, and if he continued he would find a way to do it.
Dylan's mother had a temper. Oh did Cecilia have a temper. If you crossed her she would come out swinging. Dylan had been on the receiving end of glares that made him step back and reconsider his next words carefully. That came from growing up with her. She was mother, she was God, and her word was gospel. That said, of course with age came defiance and the need to discover his own personal views on things. It led to fights.
She had never thrown something in anger though, and that is what made Dylan tense. His eyes went wide and he stared at the spot on the wall where Tony threw the glass. The first had been an accident, but that was intentional. Intentionally away from Dylan, yes, but still in that moment he saw the full weight of his father's anger, and in that moment he probably looked an awful lot like Tony had looked at Howard when he was a teenager.
"You went on a mission on her birthday." The words were quieter now. The tone a bit more respectful, but also cautious. The anger and frustration he felt was still there, but there was tough love and there was setting off a ticking time bomb. Dylan honestly was at a loss at which side of the fence he was falling on right now. "Were you sober?" He needed to know.
Tony was saying he was staying inside for him, and maybe he was, but he needed to know if he was sober on Maria's birthday. Running his fingers through his hair, he leaned against the counter and kept his gaze on floor. Glass shattered everywhere. It was going to be hell to clean it up. Might as well start with the mess he could fix. He took a couple of steps toward the utility closet to find a broom, glass crunching beneath his shoes as he did so. When he returned with it, he finally looked at his dad.
"If you got a call right now that Iron Man was needed, would you leave or stay?"
He swept up the glass as he waited for the answer because he wasn't sure it would come immediately. He wasn't sure it was something that Tony had even considered.
Dylan pointing out that he had gone out on his mother's birthday didn't make him snap out of it. It, whatever this was. Not even the way his son tensed up in the same way that Tony would when he was younger. If anything, it looked like it was one more push in the general direction of insanity and for a moment it made him feel trapped. He felt like he was caged, and the sudden instinct to reach for the scotch kicked in.
Except for the fact that his precious scotch was now down the drain.
"I wasn't sober, but I wasn't drunk. You think I would have mentioned I was leaving if I was drunk?"
The answer didn't come right away, but at least he answered. And even if it was probably not the answer Dylan wanted, it was the truth. For a moment he almost looked like he wanted to go get in his car and drive away, and honestly it was a wonder he was still in the kitchen without putting up a bigger fight.
"...right now, I don't know."
What did it matter, anyway. He didn't say it, but the look on his face almost yelled it out anyway. Having Maria Stark's eyes was sometimes a curse, because like with his mother's, right now all the emotions he was feeling could be seen reflected clearly there. The confusion, the anger, the grief, the sadness. The defensiveness, the hurt.
Looking away, he focused on the glass for a moment and started picking it up. This wasn't like him, this cleaning up his own mess, but he needed to move. He needed...something.
Too bad it was all poured out.
"Don't ever slam that recipe book again, by the way." The words were said quietly as he crouched down to pick up a larger piece, not looking up to look at his son but his tone left no room for argument. "Do whatever you want to my things, but be careful with hers."
"Yeah, that's the problem isn't it? You don't know. You never know when they're going to call for you, so maybe you shouldn't stay up all night drinking." Dylan honestly didn't want Tony helping him clean it up. It was petulant, but he couldn't help it. He felt petulant.
The words about the recipe book made him blink. He just blinked as if someone had suddenly shined a flashlight in his eyes. "You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met." The broom hit the floor with just a tiny thud, but it seemed louder in that kitchen. In a kitchen whose walls seemed to be closing in on them.
Dylan wasn't even claustrophobic and he was feeling the walls closing in. It was becoming harder for him to stand the sight of Tony. "You worry about her damn book, and look at what you're doing to the one thing that was priceless to her. Seriously, you're ridiculous and I'm done with this. I'm done acting like I'm the parent."
Something told him walking away was probably a bad idea, but he just couldn't stand the sight of him right now. He made it to the doorway before he added, "I've fired your driver for the night, so if you need a drink, I'd suggest you walk. You're in no condition to drive, and I'm not helping you get a fix. Do you even realize you're an alcoholic? Because you are. Iron Man, defender of New York, no, wait..." the sarcasm was edging into the tone now. He was beginning to sound a lot like his father, and the irony wasn't lost on him.
It was just hard to show respect for someone who would get so upset about a recipe book slammed on a counter while dosing himself up with scotch constantly. "The world right? You save the world and made it a safer place, but scotch kicked your ass. I bet you Grandpa's roadster you couldn't go a month without a drink."
And there it was. All that expensive education thrown out the window and in it's place was the challenge of a teenager to the alpha male in the room. Because he just couldn't speak rationally to Tony so he might as well dig himself into the gutter with him and speak something he understands.
Shoving his hands in his pocket, he didn't wait for an answer. "I'm leaving, call in a liquor delivery service if you need a fix. I bet they'll fly it in from Scotland for the great Anthony Stark."
The tone, the words, it was all do disrespectful and not the son that Cecilia raised, but in this moment he felt as entitled to being ridiculous as Tony was.
While Dylan spoke, Tony finally looked up and at first he looked like someone had punched him right in the face without warning. It made him forget that he was crouching on the floor, picking up glass pieces, and with each word that was uttered his hand closed a little tighter as he kept himself from lashing out yet. It was very hard to figure out what angered him the most - the sarcasm, the tone, the words. Probably a bit of everything, probably absolutely everything.
It was the walking away that did it, though. Sure, the sarcasm didn't help. Neither did the words themselves. But the walking away? Tony was standing in seconds, the shards being thrown across the room again. Earlier, with the bottle being thrown, Dylan had seen a glimpse of how much Tony could channel Howard and his temper, but as he walked away the metamorphosis seemed to be complete. Before his son could walk out the door, Tony had stalked his way towards him in just a few strides, and took him by the arm with one hand and slammed the door shut with the other.
"Don't you ever, ever speak to me like that again, Dylan James. Am I making myself clear?"
The alcohol was making it even harder to get a hold of his emotions, but he forced himself to back off before he did something he would regret for the rest of his life. As he paced, though, an old crystal candy dish that was on a side table was swatted away as he let out a sort of frustrated yell that got so tangled up in his throat that it almost sounded like a sort of growl. If any profanities were supposed to be yelled out, they all seemed to become tangled into one.
"You do not know how this feels like, and I'm glad. I'm glad you don't. I'm sorry I almost put you through it, but I didn't and YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS FEELS LIKE. It's stupid, and childish, and you name it whatever you want, but it's for you that I'm not out there like I usually do. I can't tell you how many times I did something stupid around this time of year - but I'm sure you saw it in your research, right? You couldn't have been surprised. You're a smart kid, you must have seen the pattern. The poor rich kid acting out because his parents are dead. Did you see the reports of the parties? Did you see the pictures of the accident I was in? I'm not proud of it, but WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO. I can't change overnight for you, but I'm trying and I'm sorry it's not at the speed you want. I stayed in not because Jarvis grounded me, or Happy or Pepper hid the keys. Do you know how many times they tried that? It was YOU, and knowing I had to live for Christmas that made me WANT to ground my ass down and wait this fucking month out."
His hand was bleeding. The only reason he realized his hand was bleeding was the color of the blood, but he just stared blankly at it because he didn't feel it. Not really. The thought made him chuckle under his breath, but it was empty. It wasn't even angry anymore. He just wiped it on his shirt before using his free hand to brush his hair back.
"They weren't supposed to leave," he said as he clenched his hands shut again even if one was tugging at his hair as he closed his eyes. It was like trying to keep the memories at bay, but what was the point now. "They weren't, and I-- I was supposed to be with them. It was supposed to be me, every. single. time. but it was them that it happened to."
Them. Maria and Howard. Yinsen. Obadiah. All his parents, wasn't that also one of the trends? He wasn't supposed to lose them. He always managed to escape death, and they were gone. How fucked up was that?
"And I can't change that. And no, I can't deal with it. Is that what you want to hear? This time of the year I can't deal with it, and I don't want to deal with it."
He opened his mouth to say something else, but instead clenched his mouth shut again. The muscle in his jaw seemed to be working overtime for what felt like hours before he shook his head. "You know what, you want to go? Go. You did what you came to do anyway, right?"
He was still furious when he got stopped, but Tony's words registered enough that Dylan managed a small nod of his head. "Yes, Sir." It wasn't a promise he wasn't going to speak to him like that again, but he honestly didn't want to. It was stupid and he felt like an idiot immediately after doing it. It was an outlet for the anger. The fear. Six months of it.
"I can't change that I'm not used to this either. I'm trying to get it, but I don't. I don't get why you do this to yourself. Yeah, I saw the patterns, but I thought after this summer..."
A moment of silence passed as he looked at the blood on Tony's hand. It was a mostly superficial wound compared to the condition that Dylan had seen him in before, but the wiping it on his shirt made him frown. "You're bleeding." Yeah, he's a smart kid. Smart enough to point out the obvious. Leaning against the door, he just watched Tony quietly for a few moments.
"Yes, that's what I want to hear. It doesn't make you weak because you have guilt for surviving and anger at them for dying, but Dad you came at me in a rage because I dumped some alcohol down the drain. I mean, seriously? Roles reversed, and I flip out because you take a beer from me you're not going to take it as a sign that all isn't well here?" He sighed, and tried to defuse the situation with a little bit of humor. Dry humor. "And no, it being beer instead of scotch isn't the sign." He pushed off the door and made the short walk to the closest bathroom. Not that it was an overly short walk given the size of the house, but something told him he'd find what he was looking for in there.
He was right. A few minutes later he returned with the first aid kit. "I thought when you fixed the reactor core that it would make you not be so...I don't know, I guess I thought it would make you see it as a gift. Maybe you resent that miracle right now because you miss them, but I resent you taking stupid chances with your life." He opened the kit and ignored any look he received about the cut not being a big deal. "So, I mean what do we do? Besides make a mess of this house and be ridiculous to each other? I'm working on being okay with the fact you do the Iron Man thing can't you at least work on not reaching for scotch like it's water?"
He took Tony's wrist in his hand gently and turned it over so he could see the cut. "I'm sorry. I went about this wrong and I shouldn't have spoken to you that way." He focused on cleaning the cut because it was easier than looking Tony in the eyes. "You just piss me off so bad sometimes. I'm not even usually so angry, but maybe I've been not wanting to deal with some stuff too. It's not the same though. I...what can I do that will help with this time of year?"
The attempt at humor didn't make Tony even crack a smile, because frankly the alcoholic comment was still something he took offense to, but at least he didn't just start arguing again. He was fine. Dylan was exaggerating in that.
Dylan's reasoning on how the gift of the reactor core should make him feel more inclined to live confused him, but then again Tony had driven himself into a ditch the winter after surviving Afghanistan and Stane trying to kill him a second time. Second chances at life were celebrated, sure, but this time of the year made all his reasoning go out the window.
"I think you already took care of that. The scotch is gone, yeah?"
No, he didn't sound pleased about it. Some of those bottles had still been from his father's collection. A lot of those had been from his own collection, and wow did the realization suddenly sting.
But at least he didn't pull away when Dylan took a hold of his hand. It was nothing, but he knew better than to argue. It wasn't like it would stop him anyway.
"...I don't know. I'm working on a time machine to fast forward this month, but no luck yet." If it was a joke or a serious comment it was hard to read on both his expression and flat tone, but he just moved to sit on the arm rest of a couch in the living room when Dylan finished with the cut. Suddenly he just felt so tired and old, and god he just wanted to sleep.
"I'm sorry," he added quietly after a moment. "I shouldn't have snapped at you the way I did."
"I believe I got it all, unless you have some hidden in the rooms I didn't have time to check." He flopped down on the couch next to him. Glancing up at the portrait of Howard and Maris he felt a bit ashamed of how things had gone down here. "I didn't touch the wine cellar."
It's not like he had a death wish, and he was pretty sure touching a man's wine was worse than his scotch. Mostly because he was pretty sure Pepper and Maria had put that collection together, and Pepper was scary.
"You'd move it forward? Not back then?" He sounded a bit surprised at that. Tony seemed so stuck in the past he would jump at the chance to go back and actually attempt to fix it. "You have a horrible temper. Hopefully you won't have kids. Can you imagine if they inherited it? It would be like looking into a mirror." He paused. "A nearly taller, younger and slightly more handsome mirror, but still annoying."
Leaning against the back of the couch, he let out a sigh. It had been a long day and chances were it wasn't even nearly as late as either of them thought it was. "I came here looking for a fight because you were shutting down, and I bit off more than I should have. It doesn't mean that I didn't have points, but you had some too. Maybe...we can sort out who made sense in 2011."
Dylan looked up at Tony and added quietly, "So, maybe I talked to Uncle Rhodey and he's probably on his way to New York. He said by tomorrow. If you want me to go tonight so you can have some quiet, I will. And I'm not offering at all because I think Jarvis is going to tattle on both of us to him." Yep. Not at all.
"I don't know what rooms you raided, but by the way the kitchen smelled I'm almost sure you got it." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to force himself to calm down again. "Your grandfather started that collection. I..."
He shook his head and bit the inside of his lip to stop talking. Yes, he wasn't as angry as earlier, but seriously, his scotch collection? Seriously?
The mention of his temper made a small smile tug at the end of his lips, and it was until then that he glanced towards the same portrait of his parents that Dylan was looking at. "Yeah," he finally answered. "That mirror is a little scary, truth be told. You have more of your grandfather than I realized, I guess."
When Dylan mentioned Rhodey, he stared blankly at his son because honestly he had no idea what to say. Oh Dylan. Congratulations on making your father speechless on more than one occasion in one day. "Rhodey. Tomorrow, huh? Well that'll be... ...interesting." Moving from the arm rest of the couch to actually lay down, he passed a hand along his face. "I'll leave that up to you. I don't mind if you stay, but I understand if you prefer to go. I wouldn't blame you after this whole thing."
"I'm not sorry for that. This house is a museum of stuff that was started by both of them. You have a ton of memories of the past, Dad. I don't think they'd want you to be so stuck in it all the time. Wasn't the Expo's deal about the future?"
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. A quick glance around the room and he knew he was right. This entire house was a museum. "How about we make a new rule. I don't destroy what's in this house and you don't abuse what's in it. We can have our knock out drag out fights in the house in Greece." There was a brief pause as he noticed the pinching of the bridge of Tony's nose. "You and Uncle Rhodey already staked a claim in Malibu."
Just saying. A lot of stuff got destroyed there too. "I loved that guitar collection and I have no idea which of you destroyed it or the piano." It was tempting to stay and it was tempting to go. He really wanted to talk to Hilary and brush off some of the frustration, but he didn't feel right about just dumping the scotch and then leaving Tony alone in the house.
"I'll stay. I need to clean up the kitchen and you didn't eat." Dylan paused again and glanced up at the picture. Yeah, maybe there was some Howard in him, but that wasn't such a bad thing. "I never told Mom this, but when I was sixteen I went to a party when I was supposed to be at a friend's house for the night. I'm not even sure what all I drank, but it was enough that I felt...I don't know. Out of control and completely out of my element. I convinced myself I couldn't go back to Mom's, but that I could find my way back to my friend's on my own. Took two wrong trains and ended up waking up in a bus station. It freaked me out. Then there was the time I got so wasted in Europe I accidentally hit the Iron Man button and drunk texted my dad. Alcohol isn't my thing and maybe I shouldn't judge you for my issues with it, but you worry me. All night binges and knowing if something happens you'll get in that suit scares me as much as the image of me at sixteen waking up in a New York bus station scares you."
"It's their house, Dylan. I know they're not coming back, but it's theirs." Although the defensiveness wasn't as strong as before, it still made him almost glare at his son again. Maybe he had a point, but this was the wrong month to point it out. "But, yeah. Yeah, it... Sounds good."
As his son spoke, Tony stayed quiet and listened. Although horrified at the thought of his son using public transportation, the idea of him drunk and using public transportation scared him more and he just ran a hand along his face again. He was going to point out this wasn't an all night binge, but that he had been more or less in a constant state of being buzzed or drunk this month, but... Well. Yeah, no. Bad idea.
"I know you won't believe me if I say I'm fine, but just... I don't know. Last night I was just so tired, and I thought a night cap would help. Then another. And another. It didn't..." He laughed very quietly under his breath, although it still wasn't a real one. He had no real idea why he laughed, but it just seemed a little funny because well obviously that method hadn't worked. At least he didn't mix sleeping pills with the scotch?
Yeah, he probably shouldn't mention that either.
"Don't clean up the kitchen, I'll have Dummy come up and do it."
"No, I'll do it. Like you said, it's their house, and I made that mess in there. I'll handle it. You should relax. I'll bring you some food and we'll find a movie or something."
He wasn't asking if Tony would eat. It was easier just to bring it out. If he knew that his dad was mixing his drinks with meds, then he'd be dumping pills down the toilet next. Luckily he didn't know. Sometimes it was better not to know.
The temptation to point out what Tony had said basically proved his point about the alcoholism was there, but he tabled it. Not this month. There was only ten more days left in it. It would hold.
Without saying anything else, he got up and went into the kitchen to reheat the food and clean up the mess he made. It was one thing in the home he could fix after all.
Passing a hand along his face, both to calm himself down and make himself see a little straighter, he leaned against the threshold of the kitchen and let out a sigh under his breath.
“Yeah,” he answered a bit more quietly than he had expected, but just cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but hadn’t he said that he wanted Dylan to know more about his parents? How was that supposed to happen if he didn’t talk to him about them.
God, he suddenly felt sick.
“Sometimes I helped her. When I was younger; when I got older I wasn’t... I wasn’t really around.” After the pause, his voice didn’t sound so flat. It sounded a little raw, but it was hard to tell if it was because of the annoyance about the recipes, the memories, the alcohol, or all of the above.
“I’m going to...shower. You’re right. I need to--... I’ll be back in a bit.”
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There was a look of concern on his face when Tony spoke. He looked green, and for a moment he was reminded of how...fragile that Tony had looked during the summer. God, Tony would flinch at that word being used to describe him. Dylan swallowed hard, but nodded his head. "Yeah, okay."
It wasn't until Tony was out of the kitchen that Dylan's hands smacked against the sink furiously. The anger was colliding with the concern and frustration. Was he even doing the right thing here? What the fuck did he even know about the things that Tony had survived? He was nineteen and had lived a pretty sheltered and normal life.
No. He wasn't going to make excuses for Tony. Once the pasta and salad was ready, he went to work doing what he had planned all along. There was a reason he'd picked a fast meal. He knew that Tony was not going to be happy when he discovered what his son was up to.
The glass decanters were the first to go. Tipping them like he was pouring out flat soda instead of his father's expensive scotch, the amber liquid circled the drain. There was more than a small sense of satisfaction at watching it disappear. It was a big house which meant the search was on. He had several bottles of it lined up on the counter, pouring them out one by one as he waited for Tony to finish up.
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Once he was finished showering, shaving and changing into clean clothes, he felt a bit more human but he felt far too full of emotions for his liking. He still looked tired and strung out, and his skin was still too pale from getting sick, but he ignored it as his eyes hovered over the mirror.
Walking into the kitchen, as soon as the smell of scotch hit his nose, he stopped dead in his tracks. Especially since he saw Dylan dumping it, and he was sure his heart actually STOPPED at the sight.
Thank goodness for the arc reactor, at least that kept it going.
“...excuse me, but what in the hell are you doing.”
Oh, Tony was not pleased. At all. Dylan wanted to see Tony react? Well, here you go Dyl.
Storming over to him, he reached to take the decanter away.
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The decanter was empty now so he shoved it at him. Harder than he meant to, and when it slipped out of both of their hands, he winced at the sound of glass shattering. It seemed to cover the entire floor all at once, and Dylan just stared at it.
"I'm sure you can buy ten thousand more. Dock it from my inheritance. You can write it to me in a letter if you want to make it all official." The moment the words came out, he took a step back toward the kitchen sink. "I...didn't mean, I mean I did. I did mean that. Look at YOU. GOD, DAD, THEY'RE DEAD, BUT YOU AREN'T. SOMETIMES I THINK YOU REALLY WISH YOU WERE."
The shouting stopped as fast as it came on. Shaking with anger, he went back to opening the bottles and pouring them down the drain. If Tony grabbed the bottles away, then what was he going to do? Physically fight Iron Man over scotch bottles? This was ridiculous.
"Everything you've told me about them, showed me of them, points to the fact they would be horrified by seeing you do this to yourself. And maybe you are worse this month, I'm not making light of it. I'm not. I wish I knew them, and I can't take that from you, but I just wish you'd wake up and look at me for a second. I'm here fighting with you over scotch that is older than probably my grandfather would be. You just...it's like you want to save all of us, but you don't give a shit about yourself. Just stop for a damn minute and take yourself out of your shoes and put yourself in theirs." He looked up at Tony and saw the same intensity in his gaze. Genetics. He has his mother's eyes, but the emotion was easily the same as his father's.
"If you'd died and I did this to myself every year because of it, would you be okay with that? Is that what you'd want from me? Or would you want me to do what he said to you in that reel. You were what they loved more than anything, and I hate the smell of scotch. I hate when you're like this."
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"I KNOW THEY'RE DEAD," he snapped in a way he had never snapped at his son before. Maybe it was true, sons always followed their father's footsteps.
God, that was a terrifying thought.
"You don't have to remind me. What do you want me to do, Dylan. Tell me." His own anger, defensiveness, and even hurt and resentment was bubbling so close to the surface that it was obvious in his voice. "What do you want me to do. I have been staying inside for you. So you won't worry that I'm out there." And while Dylan might not see that as Tony taking care of himself, to him it was. He wasn't out flying or driving drunk. No matter how much he wanted to face some explosions for the rush and the risk of it, he was staying put. He wasn't really suicidal.
...right?
It was hard to figure out who he was suddenly angrier at. Tony himself wanted to throw a tantrum, the one he had wanted to throw when it had happened but had kept buried down while he drank himself blind for the funeral and then the lost years in Europe before taking over the company. Despite all the sadness, all the grief, he was angry. Furious at his parents for dying. It was irrational, sure, but fuck he was suddenly so angry that he couldn't see straight. Maybe it was the alcohol still running through his veins, maybe Dylan had scratched too hard at the surface and unearthed something.
Maybe...
Taking one of the empty bottles on the counter, he threw it across the kitchen to crash against the wall away from Dylan.
When he spoke again, he didn't raise his voice but the edge of grief, bitterness and anger was there. Sharper and more real than he could remember feeling. "No matter what I want, no matter what I do, it doesn't change things. They're the ones that died. The ones that--"
Maria. Howard. Right now even Obadiah, Yinsen. The anger boiled down to nothing, and the survivor's guilt almost swallowed him whole.
Clenching his jaw shut, he choked out a dry humorless chuckle. He stared at the empty decanters and bottles. "...you know... You want to do this, fine. Do whatever you want."
Did he like it? No, but all the emotions he was feeling, all this vulnerability was making him want to lash out in the worst way, and if he continued he would find a way to do it.
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She had never thrown something in anger though, and that is what made Dylan tense. His eyes went wide and he stared at the spot on the wall where Tony threw the glass. The first had been an accident, but that was intentional. Intentionally away from Dylan, yes, but still in that moment he saw the full weight of his father's anger, and in that moment he probably looked an awful lot like Tony had looked at Howard when he was a teenager.
"You went on a mission on her birthday." The words were quieter now. The tone a bit more respectful, but also cautious. The anger and frustration he felt was still there, but there was tough love and there was setting off a ticking time bomb. Dylan honestly was at a loss at which side of the fence he was falling on right now. "Were you sober?" He needed to know.
Tony was saying he was staying inside for him, and maybe he was, but he needed to know if he was sober on Maria's birthday. Running his fingers through his hair, he leaned against the counter and kept his gaze on floor. Glass shattered everywhere. It was going to be hell to clean it up. Might as well start with the mess he could fix. He took a couple of steps toward the utility closet to find a broom, glass crunching beneath his shoes as he did so. When he returned with it, he finally looked at his dad.
"If you got a call right now that Iron Man was needed, would you leave or stay?"
He swept up the glass as he waited for the answer because he wasn't sure it would come immediately. He wasn't sure it was something that Tony had even considered.
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Except for the fact that his precious scotch was now down the drain.
"I wasn't sober, but I wasn't drunk. You think I would have mentioned I was leaving if I was drunk?"
The answer didn't come right away, but at least he answered. And even if it was probably not the answer Dylan wanted, it was the truth. For a moment he almost looked like he wanted to go get in his car and drive away, and honestly it was a wonder he was still in the kitchen without putting up a bigger fight.
"...right now, I don't know."
What did it matter, anyway. He didn't say it, but the look on his face almost yelled it out anyway. Having Maria Stark's eyes was sometimes a curse, because like with his mother's, right now all the emotions he was feeling could be seen reflected clearly there. The confusion, the anger, the grief, the sadness. The defensiveness, the hurt.
Looking away, he focused on the glass for a moment and started picking it up. This wasn't like him, this cleaning up his own mess, but he needed to move. He needed...something.
Too bad it was all poured out.
"Don't ever slam that recipe book again, by the way." The words were said quietly as he crouched down to pick up a larger piece, not looking up to look at his son but his tone left no room for argument. "Do whatever you want to my things, but be careful with hers."
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The words about the recipe book made him blink. He just blinked as if someone had suddenly shined a flashlight in his eyes. "You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met." The broom hit the floor with just a tiny thud, but it seemed louder in that kitchen. In a kitchen whose walls seemed to be closing in on them.
Dylan wasn't even claustrophobic and he was feeling the walls closing in. It was becoming harder for him to stand the sight of Tony. "You worry about her damn book, and look at what you're doing to the one thing that was priceless to her. Seriously, you're ridiculous and I'm done with this. I'm done acting like I'm the parent."
Something told him walking away was probably a bad idea, but he just couldn't stand the sight of him right now. He made it to the doorway before he added, "I've fired your driver for the night, so if you need a drink, I'd suggest you walk. You're in no condition to drive, and I'm not helping you get a fix. Do you even realize you're an alcoholic? Because you are. Iron Man, defender of New York, no, wait..." the sarcasm was edging into the tone now. He was beginning to sound a lot like his father, and the irony wasn't lost on him.
It was just hard to show respect for someone who would get so upset about a recipe book slammed on a counter while dosing himself up with scotch constantly. "The world right? You save the world and made it a safer place, but scotch kicked your ass. I bet you Grandpa's roadster you couldn't go a month without a drink."
And there it was. All that expensive education thrown out the window and in it's place was the challenge of a teenager to the alpha male in the room. Because he just couldn't speak rationally to Tony so he might as well dig himself into the gutter with him and speak something he understands.
Shoving his hands in his pocket, he didn't wait for an answer. "I'm leaving, call in a liquor delivery service if you need a fix. I bet they'll fly it in from Scotland for the great Anthony Stark."
The tone, the words, it was all do disrespectful and not the son that Cecilia raised, but in this moment he felt as entitled to being ridiculous as Tony was.
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It was the walking away that did it, though. Sure, the sarcasm didn't help. Neither did the words themselves. But the walking away? Tony was standing in seconds, the shards being thrown across the room again. Earlier, with the bottle being thrown, Dylan had seen a glimpse of how much Tony could channel Howard and his temper, but as he walked away the metamorphosis seemed to be complete. Before his son could walk out the door, Tony had stalked his way towards him in just a few strides, and took him by the arm with one hand and slammed the door shut with the other.
"Don't you ever, ever speak to me like that again, Dylan James. Am I making myself clear?"
The alcohol was making it even harder to get a hold of his emotions, but he forced himself to back off before he did something he would regret for the rest of his life. As he paced, though, an old crystal candy dish that was on a side table was swatted away as he let out a sort of frustrated yell that got so tangled up in his throat that it almost sounded like a sort of growl. If any profanities were supposed to be yelled out, they all seemed to become tangled into one.
"You do not know how this feels like, and I'm glad. I'm glad you don't. I'm sorry I almost put you through it, but I didn't and YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS FEELS LIKE. It's stupid, and childish, and you name it whatever you want, but it's for you that I'm not out there like I usually do. I can't tell you how many times I did something stupid around this time of year - but I'm sure you saw it in your research, right? You couldn't have been surprised. You're a smart kid, you must have seen the pattern. The poor rich kid acting out because his parents are dead. Did you see the reports of the parties? Did you see the pictures of the accident I was in? I'm not proud of it, but WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO. I can't change overnight for you, but I'm trying and I'm sorry it's not at the speed you want. I stayed in not because Jarvis grounded me, or Happy or Pepper hid the keys. Do you know how many times they tried that? It was YOU, and knowing I had to live for Christmas that made me WANT to ground my ass down and wait this fucking month out."
His hand was bleeding. The only reason he realized his hand was bleeding was the color of the blood, but he just stared blankly at it because he didn't feel it. Not really. The thought made him chuckle under his breath, but it was empty. It wasn't even angry anymore. He just wiped it on his shirt before using his free hand to brush his hair back.
"They weren't supposed to leave," he said as he clenched his hands shut again even if one was tugging at his hair as he closed his eyes. It was like trying to keep the memories at bay, but what was the point now. "They weren't, and I-- I was supposed to be with them. It was supposed to be me, every. single. time. but it was them that it happened to."
Them. Maria and Howard. Yinsen. Obadiah. All his parents, wasn't that also one of the trends? He wasn't supposed to lose them. He always managed to escape death, and they were gone. How fucked up was that?
"And I can't change that. And no, I can't deal with it. Is that what you want to hear? This time of the year I can't deal with it, and I don't want to deal with it."
He opened his mouth to say something else, but instead clenched his mouth shut again. The muscle in his jaw seemed to be working overtime for what felt like hours before he shook his head. "You know what, you want to go? Go. You did what you came to do anyway, right?"
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"I can't change that I'm not used to this either. I'm trying to get it, but I don't. I don't get why you do this to yourself. Yeah, I saw the patterns, but I thought after this summer..."
A moment of silence passed as he looked at the blood on Tony's hand. It was a mostly superficial wound compared to the condition that Dylan had seen him in before, but the wiping it on his shirt made him frown. "You're bleeding." Yeah, he's a smart kid. Smart enough to point out the obvious. Leaning against the door, he just watched Tony quietly for a few moments.
"Yes, that's what I want to hear. It doesn't make you weak because you have guilt for surviving and anger at them for dying, but Dad you came at me in a rage because I dumped some alcohol down the drain. I mean, seriously? Roles reversed, and I flip out because you take a beer from me you're not going to take it as a sign that all isn't well here?" He sighed, and tried to defuse the situation with a little bit of humor. Dry humor. "And no, it being beer instead of scotch isn't the sign." He pushed off the door and made the short walk to the closest bathroom. Not that it was an overly short walk given the size of the house, but something told him he'd find what he was looking for in there.
He was right. A few minutes later he returned with the first aid kit. "I thought when you fixed the reactor core that it would make you not be so...I don't know, I guess I thought it would make you see it as a gift. Maybe you resent that miracle right now because you miss them, but I resent you taking stupid chances with your life." He opened the kit and ignored any look he received about the cut not being a big deal. "So, I mean what do we do? Besides make a mess of this house and be ridiculous to each other? I'm working on being okay with the fact you do the Iron Man thing can't you at least work on not reaching for scotch like it's water?"
He took Tony's wrist in his hand gently and turned it over so he could see the cut. "I'm sorry. I went about this wrong and I shouldn't have spoken to you that way." He focused on cleaning the cut because it was easier than looking Tony in the eyes. "You just piss me off so bad sometimes. I'm not even usually so angry, but maybe I've been not wanting to deal with some stuff too. It's not the same though. I...what can I do that will help with this time of year?"
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Dylan's reasoning on how the gift of the reactor core should make him feel more inclined to live confused him, but then again Tony had driven himself into a ditch the winter after surviving Afghanistan and Stane trying to kill him a second time. Second chances at life were celebrated, sure, but this time of the year made all his reasoning go out the window.
"I think you already took care of that. The scotch is gone, yeah?"
No, he didn't sound pleased about it. Some of those bottles had still been from his father's collection. A lot of those had been from his own collection, and wow did the realization suddenly sting.
But at least he didn't pull away when Dylan took a hold of his hand. It was nothing, but he knew better than to argue. It wasn't like it would stop him anyway.
"...I don't know. I'm working on a time machine to fast forward this month, but no luck yet." If it was a joke or a serious comment it was hard to read on both his expression and flat tone, but he just moved to sit on the arm rest of a couch in the living room when Dylan finished with the cut. Suddenly he just felt so tired and old, and god he just wanted to sleep.
"I'm sorry," he added quietly after a moment. "I shouldn't have snapped at you the way I did."
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It's not like he had a death wish, and he was pretty sure touching a man's wine was worse than his scotch. Mostly because he was pretty sure Pepper and Maria had put that collection together, and Pepper was scary.
"You'd move it forward? Not back then?" He sounded a bit surprised at that. Tony seemed so stuck in the past he would jump at the chance to go back and actually attempt to fix it. "You have a horrible temper. Hopefully you won't have kids. Can you imagine if they inherited it? It would be like looking into a mirror." He paused. "A nearly taller, younger and slightly more handsome mirror, but still annoying."
Leaning against the back of the couch, he let out a sigh. It had been a long day and chances were it wasn't even nearly as late as either of them thought it was. "I came here looking for a fight because you were shutting down, and I bit off more than I should have. It doesn't mean that I didn't have points, but you had some too. Maybe...we can sort out who made sense in 2011."
Dylan looked up at Tony and added quietly, "So, maybe I talked to Uncle Rhodey and he's probably on his way to New York. He said by tomorrow. If you want me to go tonight so you can have some quiet, I will. And I'm not offering at all because I think Jarvis is going to tattle on both of us to him." Yep. Not at all.
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He shook his head and bit the inside of his lip to stop talking. Yes, he wasn't as angry as earlier, but seriously, his scotch collection? Seriously?
The mention of his temper made a small smile tug at the end of his lips, and it was until then that he glanced towards the same portrait of his parents that Dylan was looking at. "Yeah," he finally answered. "That mirror is a little scary, truth be told. You have more of your grandfather than I realized, I guess."
When Dylan mentioned Rhodey, he stared blankly at his son because honestly he had no idea what to say. Oh Dylan. Congratulations on making your father speechless on more than one occasion in one day. "Rhodey. Tomorrow, huh? Well that'll be... ...interesting." Moving from the arm rest of the couch to actually lay down, he passed a hand along his face. "I'll leave that up to you. I don't mind if you stay, but I understand if you prefer to go. I wouldn't blame you after this whole thing."
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He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. A quick glance around the room and he knew he was right. This entire house was a museum. "How about we make a new rule. I don't destroy what's in this house and you don't abuse what's in it. We can have our knock out drag out fights in the house in Greece." There was a brief pause as he noticed the pinching of the bridge of Tony's nose. "You and Uncle Rhodey already staked a claim in Malibu."
Just saying. A lot of stuff got destroyed there too. "I loved that guitar collection and I have no idea which of you destroyed it or the piano." It was tempting to stay and it was tempting to go. He really wanted to talk to Hilary and brush off some of the frustration, but he didn't feel right about just dumping the scotch and then leaving Tony alone in the house.
"I'll stay. I need to clean up the kitchen and you didn't eat." Dylan paused again and glanced up at the picture. Yeah, maybe there was some Howard in him, but that wasn't such a bad thing. "I never told Mom this, but when I was sixteen I went to a party when I was supposed to be at a friend's house for the night. I'm not even sure what all I drank, but it was enough that I felt...I don't know. Out of control and completely out of my element. I convinced myself I couldn't go back to Mom's, but that I could find my way back to my friend's on my own. Took two wrong trains and ended up waking up in a bus station. It freaked me out. Then there was the time I got so wasted in Europe I accidentally hit the Iron Man button and drunk texted my dad. Alcohol isn't my thing and maybe I shouldn't judge you for my issues with it, but you worry me. All night binges and knowing if something happens you'll get in that suit scares me as much as the image of me at sixteen waking up in a New York bus station scares you."
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As his son spoke, Tony stayed quiet and listened. Although horrified at the thought of his son using public transportation, the idea of him drunk and using public transportation scared him more and he just ran a hand along his face again. He was going to point out this wasn't an all night binge, but that he had been more or less in a constant state of being buzzed or drunk this month, but... Well. Yeah, no. Bad idea.
"I know you won't believe me if I say I'm fine, but just... I don't know. Last night I was just so tired, and I thought a night cap would help. Then another. And another. It didn't..." He laughed very quietly under his breath, although it still wasn't a real one. He had no real idea why he laughed, but it just seemed a little funny because well obviously that method hadn't worked. At least he didn't mix sleeping pills with the scotch?
Yeah, he probably shouldn't mention that either.
"Don't clean up the kitchen, I'll have Dummy come up and do it."
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He wasn't asking if Tony would eat. It was easier just to bring it out. If he knew that his dad was mixing his drinks with meds, then he'd be dumping pills down the toilet next. Luckily he didn't know. Sometimes it was better not to know.
The temptation to point out what Tony had said basically proved his point about the alcoholism was there, but he tabled it. Not this month. There was only ten more days left in it. It would hold.
Without saying anything else, he got up and went into the kitchen to reheat the food and clean up the mess he made. It was one thing in the home he could fix after all.
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