The Crash Effect - for capcicle

[starkingenuity]

Tony Stark does not do moderation.  Oh, he tries, he flirts with it, takes it out for a nice dinner and promises not to be a one night stand but inevitably, he leaves it for a walk of shame in the morning, condom wrapper stuck to it's left heel

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[capcicle]

At one point, before he had been living war and learned to breath through the smell of cordite, mud, and unwashed bodies in too small a space, Steve thought days running together was just something that happened when you were bored, but that was before the serum and Nazis, a rescue mission and a last, desperate act that took out the Red Skull and locked him under the ice for seventy years. Things had been a whole lot simpler when he'd just been little Stevie Rogers who had big ideas and a backbone to match but not the size and strength to defend them or himself -- He remembers each and every bruise and broken bone, the feeling of frustration that he was just not good enough. And he still never gave up. That's probably why Erskine liked him so much

[capcicle]

As the appointed head of the Avengers - He doesn't think he deserves the spot because he's still out of his depth with the 21st century in some regards - Steve made it his duty ensure that the people under his command were healthy, happy, and as whole and taken care of as they could be. Most of them were living in small apartments at one of the ground facilities S.H.I.E.L.D owned so it was pretty easy to check up on Clint (always at the range when not undergoing mandated reevaluation or away on an OP), Natasha (she let Steve find her on occasion but largely she was absent, most likely on a mission), and Bruce (who SHIELD kept under heavy surveillance and, like Steve, couldn't really leave without an escort). He didn't really need to worry about them so much because they were close at hand and didn't seem to shy away from his well meaning inquires. And then there was the last member: Iron Man. Stark. Tony. The only one that had a place outside of SHIELD and the only one that bristled when Steve checked up on him. Tony was a grown man

[starkingenuity]

There's simply no recognition in Tony's eyes when he lifts dead, dirt brown eyes up at Steve. His brows do furrow, however, because he knows he ought to be alone right now and not faced with a Ken doll with perfect hair and simple but stylish, classic, ageless charm. Steve is out of place in this dwelling place of the mind, where wires are dukes and Tony their king.

No. Their God. They worship him and bend to his whim when he's merciful and curse his name when rising up in revolt but he loves them just them all just the same. His children. The product of his mind. He shapes them in pleasing images or tortures them as they do him. Right now, he's apathetic towards them. They lay in abandoned ruin, waiting for their maestro. He's not going to give in. Not today.

Not when there is an intruder.

Tony sucks in a breath. He looks like he might attempt to stand, but he doesn't. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing spills out for several syllables. It's painful to watch. It's worse to hear. "Jarvis, intruder alert

[capcicle]

Tony's in bad shape; gaunt features and bags so deep Steve figured they could hold the entirety of his wardrobe and still have room for the shoes. His clothes were creased, rumbled beyond repair and grease stained. He thinks they might be a little singed too but he's not looking to closely at the clothes in favor of mapping Tony's features and body, looking for any sign of hurt.

"Tony," He tried again and moved a few steps closer, crouching just a handbreadth from his teammate. He would have sat further back but he wanted to be close enough...just in case. He's not sure what he thinks would happen but he wants to be prepared for it nonetheless. "JARVIS told me that you needed some help but he was real short on details when I asked."

[starkingenuity]

"Does it look like I need help?" All right, that's a terribly stupid question. When faced with Mr. Perfect Hair, Tony does get the impression that he's not exactly up to snuff when it comes to being classified as human or even humanlike. He'd give himself a Grade D label and as he feels like a piece of ground meat, that's probably a good way to think about it

[capcicle]

Steve follows him up and frowns at him, eyes narrowed in thought. He doesn't answer at all but he wants to, it's clear that the words are poised on his tongue, breath ready to carry his voice. If he answer honestly, earnestly, he knows Tony will probably snap at him, growl like some feral thing and shut down, withdraw, and tell Steve to leave him alone, to go away. There's no way that he's going to leave now or be forced out, not when he's seen the shape the man's in. His gut is telling him that if he ignores this, ignores the hurt and panic he'd seen flashing behind those dulled eyes, that something will be lost that might not be recoverable. That Tony might be lost. That thought makes his stomach clench in dread.

"JARVIS, is there anything edible in the fridge I saw on my way through this place?" He waits until Tony's a little more alert, more awake than when he found him before he address him. "Why don't you go get that shower and I whip us up a late night snack. Then we can talk."

[starkingenuity]

He's not so far gone that he hasn't realized he's got a tail, and one not smart enough to stay upwind from the disheveled and sweat encrusted genius. At the bar, one of many he's installed across his living space at the Tower, Tony pours himself something to rinse out the sour taste from his mouth and replace it with a bitter, burning one instead. His stomach lurches unhappily for a moment before it settles down and lack of food causes the alcohol to hit his blood stream in record time.

He can deal with being light headed from the buzz. He doesn't much care for it otherwise.

A glance over his shoulder confirms what he saw in the polished brass behind the bar. Steve has his Mom Face on. Tony takes another drink. "Talk? It's not ready to talk about." Whatever it is. He's been working on something. He knows it. He can feel it. He just has no memory of it. "But sure, we can talk about it when I get the schematics together. Getting an interest in something besides the news?"

[capcicle]

The unsteady gait worries him but not as much as the alcohol. It's Tony's right to drink as he pleases but Steve's seen what booze does to a man, has seen it turn good men violent, has witnessed bottles and fists flying in a alcohol induced rage that had to run its course because it would only get worse if you tried to stop it. Steve's got memories of bruises covered with thick creams and sweet smelling powder and blood being scrubbed off the floorboards to last a lifetime and that was before the war showed him how much the drink was used to dull things worse than beatings and broken bones

[starkingenuity]

"Flattered, I really am, but I've sworn off blonds." His attempt at humor is pretty damned poor for a man known for a biting, constantly waggling tongue, but sure Steve will forgive him for not being in his top form. "I will take that snack though."

His stomach probably can't take anything heavy, but the mention of food leaves him aching in his knees for something to fill him. Alcohol is a good start. Tony might seem outwardly suicidal at times, but he really doesn't want to die. The thrill is intense, the experiment of a permanent solution to still his brain always has him courting disaster. But being alive is still wonderful to him. Sometimes

[capcicle]

JARVIS informed him that he'd keep an eye on 'Mr. Stark' when Tony had disappeared down the hall and Steve had to take the AI's word on it, had to force himself to move in the opposite direction and not follow the staggering figure to make sure the man didn't slip and crack his head open on the tiles. It was surprisingly harder to do.

He found the kitchen and immediately started rummaging around in what fridge for anything edible. He didn't find a lot, really, that he'd consider actual food but there was enough in take out boxes and a few assorted items hidden away in drawers and behind bottles of something to make a small meal. It wouldn't be much but he figured he'd get something into Tony and hopefully see him to bed then head down to an all-night grocer a few blocks away to get something a little more substantial for the morning. He was arranging the foodstuffs on two separate plates when Tony came back in and barely looked up to acknowledge the fact until he was grabbing both and heading to the bar, nodding towards the stools

[starkingenuity]

"First of all, you weren't invited. You were pranked. And second, yes, it's still stalking. Jarvis, stop aiding and abetting my stalkers." He's not exactly pleased by the little feast that Steve sets in front of him because his stomach, though primed for food, has been fasting for days now and it probably can't hold it. He picks at it, not to be polite, but to satisfy the ache in his belly and drinks the rest of his meal instead

[capcicle]

It doesn't go unnoticed that Tony doesn't eat though he looks both covetously and disgusted at his plate, at Steve's plate. He watches, worry twisting his stomach in knots, as the man pushes the food around the colored ceramic, smashing bits here, separating bits there, making it look like he'd eaten more than the bird's portion he'd pecked out -- Granted the only one who ate more than Steve was Thor but he knew Tony needed more than what he was getting.

"If JARVIS didn't aid and abet you'd probably be passed out where I'd found you," He points out. "Tony you looked awful. Still do, to be honest." Steve shifted, putting his fork down, and just looked at Tony. He looked little better than he had before the shower and he was pretty sure there was still grease peeking out from behind the man's ears. "You look like you went twelve rounds with Barney Ross!"

"What's going on with you, Tony?"

[starkingenuity]

How can something smell so delicious and so revolting at the same time? Tony looks like he's lost the ability to properly use a fork or is trying out a new painting technique on whatever that orange bit of mash use to once be. He doesn't look up at Steve Rogers, hero out of time, older and younger and wise and so insanely simply that Stark has a hard time placing him properly in the right sequence of thoughts. He pretends that the bit of brown mush is that idea for a new jet engine rotator blade that's creeping back into his mind and squashes it out before he abandons all hope and fork and food to the plate