[SEADLA] Chapter 3/24: Escape
✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS
FANDOM: Marvel’s MCU
SERIES: SEADLA Verse, version 2.0
RATING: Mature
WORDCOUNT: 3 397
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Tony Stark, Loki, Tony’s therapist, and background appearances by Rhodey & the Avengers
GENRE: First steps.
TRIGGER WARNING(S): Mentions of suicide and generally low self esteem (Check the AO3 listing for a glimpse of what’s to come). Note, too, that while I’m trying to improve the handling of Loki’s gender-fluidity, there may be problematic factors 1. in that he’s still uncomfy about the whole thing so he may have opinions that sound kinda bad or incorrect, 2. In that, for now at least, he’s still using magic to switch bodies as he switches gender (tw for cissexism/binarism I guess?) and 3. In that I’m not an expert and I might mess up. So can Tony but, hopefully, those will only be voluntary on my part.
SUMMARY: In which Tony is politely but forcibly told to go see a therapist, and he’s really not happy about that.
DEDICATION(S): To the first version’s readers, to the people who leave comments on the fic three years after its last update, and to 2012!me, who needed to write this fic a lot.
SEADLA ON LJ: Chapter 1, Chapter 2,
They make him see a therapist when he gets out.
He tries very hard not to blame them-at this point it’s probably either that or suicide via cirrhosis and he supposes it’s understandable of that they’d rather avoid that. He’s not too keen on it himself, anyway. Well, he still sort of thinks about it but not to actually do it, more as a failsafe. Activate in case of impending, unavoidable doom. Possibly, in the others’ position, he’d do the same.
The rather large problem is: thinking like this doesn’t make anything better. He’s still trapped between spilling his guts to a complete stranger when, historically, it hasn’t been such a great move for him...or spilling his guts to Rhodey and have to admit, a) that he lied during their Skype call last weekend when he said doing better already (thank the universe for crappy hospital Wi-Fi) and b) that he’s kinda-sorta been lying by omission for years by not telling his own best friend about his ridiculously disproportionate problems. Between the rock and the hard place, Tony would rather pick the rock, but that doesn’t make the blow any softer.
The-possibly only-upside to that, at least, is that once he’s done fighting Steve and Pepper for a modicum of privacy and telling them he didn’t plan on jumping in front of the first passing car to shut them up, the walk to his therapist’s office turns out to be a good thing. Sure, it requires conscious effort not to beat himself up about the low blow he used during their conversation, but once he’s pushed that out of his mind, Tony gets a solid fifteen minutes of blessed emptiness. Fifteen minutes where he gets to focus on the rhythm of his feet and forget about Pepper’s fear and Steve’s vaguely judgmental confusion and Bruce’s guilt and Thor’s...whatever it is that makes him look at Tony like he’s turned into a particularly nasty jigsaw puzzle.
It’s not that Tony doesn’t understand why they react the way they do-even if it does take several deep breathing exercises and at least ten minutes of alone-time before he can clearly remember that-but the way they do it is downright insufferable. The way they keep looking and pausing and holding their breath-the way even Jarvis, of all people, has taken to asking him about his state of mind more often than usual! He could just about scream with the ache of it, with the way his skin keeps crawling with the need to go down to his workshop and never get back out.
At least walking to therapy alone affords him some time away from the excess of it all and the permanent, stifling undercurrent of confused disappointment, as if gratefulness and cooperation were the only possible paths and he’s just being difficult by ignoring them.
It’ not like he’s not trying. Half of his time these days-well, for the past forty odd years, really-are spent trying to feel the way he should, if only so it’ll make things easier for him and everyone else involved. Much as it was during the last four decades, though, the results of that switch between nothing and the mental equivalent of his brain waving a middle finger at his face. Except on top of it all, now tony has to deal with Steve’s awkward verbal reiterations that he does genuinely enjoy spending time with Tony, who isn’t a burden at all and blah, blah, blah.
(There is, in all honesty, something briefly soothing about that or, at the very least, in the thought that Steve cares enough about Tony to think of saying it. It’s just that Tony’s brain is screwed in a way that makes Steve’s attempt as efficient as putting a band-aid on a bleeding artery and, right now, he doesn’t feel up to indulging anyone’s ego about the efficiency of their efforts.)
He arrives at his appointment twenty minutes early and spends most of those getting up then back down-crossing and uncrossing his legs, fiddlings with the hem of his jacket-before he ends up taking his phone out, typing a text and hitting send before his brain can fully catch up with him.
He’s a tad disappointed-but hardly surprised-when his appointment time rolls around without an answer and he turns his phone off. He hasn’t done that in literal years, and it’s quite possible that he shouldn’t feel so viciously satisfied, knowing his friends have no means of contacting him right now, but he does. After all, even a little control is better than no control at all.
Tony’s finely-honed experience in going through the motions and pretending to listen comes in handy as his therapist sorts out the last administrative details and drones on about their usual working methods. It gives Tony time to focus on what he’s going to say later on, scratch his wrists, look at the walls, the window, the strange painting hung on the wall-and stare like a gap-mouthed fish once the formalities are over and he’s actually expected to talk.
Because while the first standard part has been a complete success-he literally didn’t even catch the guy’s name-this entire situation is miles away from Tony’s usual scripts and now, he’s got no idea what to talk about.
Well, that’s not all true. He’s probably supposed to explain why he decided to cut his wrist open-retrace the mental steps that brought him there. The question being, of course: how do you even explain any of it? Which angle of the all-around pathetic mess do you tackle first?
“I worry my friends don’t love me like I love them.” But is it really love if you feel like you need them? And isn’t it much better for them if they don’t need you?
“My father never really gave a shit about me.” But really, how pathetic does that sound, at his age and with a father almost twenty years dead?
“Sometimes, people ask me how I’m going and I want to cry.” But really that one is probably just him being inadequate-everyone else seems to have at least that much under control, and besides it’s really kind of a minor thing anyway.
“I'm jealous of my ex because she's moving on with her life and I'm still stuck in this freaking place where I can't do anything that doesn't sound like I'm a teenager on crack or a depressed guy who drinks too much.” That one almost tears a snort out of Tony.
“I am a depressed guy who drinks too much.”
There’s no real starting point, no blueprint or lesson plan he can follow to point at his life and say ‘this is where it all started to go down’. There’s just him and his stupid ass sitting in an office he didn’t even particularly want to be in in the first place-Tony swallows hard against the abrupt burn in his throat and does everything he can not to watch his therapist-Colin? Justin?-a a second longer than strictly necessary.
“Do you want me to ask the obvious question?” Maybe-Bradin asks eventually. “It usually helps.”
Honestly, Tony has been bombarded by the thousand dollars question-on Pepper’s face and in Steve’s voice and in Rhodey’s silence before he said ‘I’m glad you’re alive’ and apologized for being in deployment for the fifth time-enough to last him a lifetime or ten already. Hell, he’s even physically felt it, in the oddly delicate pat of Thor’s hand on his shoulder when he greeted Tony back home. The very thought of having to deal with that question again is enough to make him crave for a good bottle of Jack and a quiet place to lie in for eternity.
He did promise to talk to the guy though-and anyway, he’s not the expert and if it’s what he’s asked to do in order to properly complete therapy duty, he’s just gonna have to bite the bullet-so he nods, and tires not to wince when the guy says:
“I am aware I’m not the first to ask you this, and I suppose you’ve given it some thought of your own already. However, I’d like you to answer me without thinking. Is that alright with you?”
Tony nods at maybe-Austin’s Italian leather shoes and braces himself for the obvious by knitting the fingers of his hands together.
“Do you have any idea why you tried to die, Tony?”
“I overcooked the rice.”
Which is, he supposes, a stupid thing to beat himself over, let alone attempt suicide for-he can even feel his neck burn with the shame of it. But, of course, it’s not just about the rice.
It’s just that someone that night left and jokingly told him not to starve which, really, is a valid concern in the absence of people capable of forcibly shoving food in his hands. But he was drunk and he was vexed and he decided he’d prove himself-and them-he could take care of himself like a normal, responsible adult-for once-and honestly, Steve and Thor got the hang of it pretty fast so why the Hell wouldn’t Tony, uh?
But then he let it overcook, and it became another tally on the long list of things he failed at like being interesting enough for Howard and making Pepper happy and meeting basic adulting standards and-well.
At the time it kind of seemed like the logical conclusion to a life-long thoughts process, but now Tony’s facing the consequences of it and he’s having doubts. The rice thing gets him starting though and he’s not quite sure what he says after that-it kind of all mixes together in an ugly blur and there’s a lot of nose-blowing involved-but he comes out of the office feeling so much lighter than before he almost feels like he’s going to topple over.
It’s possibly not the intended effect, but it’s progress and, honestly, he might as well take it.
He steps on the sidewalk feeling like he’s breathing a different kind of air somehow, and blinks when a woman walks up to him, white skin almost glowing in the sun. She’s decked out in full walking gear, fire-like hair arranged in a messy French braid while her face disappears behind garish yellow sunglasses that make her look like a large, cheerfully-dressed bug.
Tony reaches for his public face, the polite-but-not-engaging smile he keeps for press mobs and women he’s trying to refuse a hook up with while also avoiding a scandal. He’s not all that good at that last one, but in this specific case it doesn’t really matter because the woman looks ready for an actual conversation, which means Tony has few chances of avoiding it and really, what did he think coming there on foot that was stupid he should have-she smirks, stretching the freckles splattered on her cheeks, and Tony’s eyes widen.
“Don’t look so scared, Stark,” she says as she takes her glasses off and reveal eyes just as green as they were in Vicky’s face, “I’m not here to harm you.”
“I...didn’t expect you to be here,” Tony says after too long a beat.
He definitely feels far less surprised than he should, let alone scared. It’s a bit like he’s exhausted his emotional quota of the day and there’s nothing left to shock him until tomorrow morning. Loki doesn’t seem to care though, and he/she keeps smiling as she loops an arm around Tony’s:
“I came here to abduct you.”
“Should I page the Avengers?”
“That depends-do you want to skip your celebration?”
Tony manages-barely-not to gape at Loki as his/her freckled shoulder rises and falls with a shrug. A couple weeks ago, he thought finding Loki by his bedside after waking from a heavily sedated sleep would be the weirdest thing to ever happen in his life-and now for some reason here Loki is again, looking for all intent and purposes like he/she planned a mountain hike and talking about celebrating something with Tony. Possibly even for him.
Error 404, does not compute.
After all, leaving aside the fact that Tony hasn’t had a private celebration for anything since he got into MIT-even if Rhodey was the only person he really cared about at the time-he’s never really managed to make time to spend with his closest friends. The thought of having some kind of tête-à-tête with Loki, of all people, is almost enough to make him turn heels and tell himself he just hallucinated all the way back to the tower.
(He doesn’t, of course. Loki might be the local supervillain but spending time with him/her, pesky slash problems aside, sounds infinitely preferable to going back home and facing a barrage of well-meaning but definitely not welcome questions about his therapy session. The slash problem is much easier to solve.)
“Should I use he or she?” He blurts before he can grow self-conscious about it, “Because I’m kind of confused and having to dance around it is annoying.”
“Whichever you prefer,” Loki responds with a stunning lack of helpfulness. “Although since I am currently presenting as a woman, I suppose feminine pronouns are the most logical option.”
Tony nods, mostly because there isn’t really anything to add to that, and follows Loki off the street and into an empty alley, away from the mid-afternoon crowd. It’s a good thing he’s pulling all the survival instincts off service these days, because it looks like the kind of decor Hollywood characters get murdered in...again though: post-therapy cross-interrogation. Not looking forward to that.
He doesn’t protest when blinding green light surrounds Loki and him, only to reveal a wall of tropical trees and a thin trail when it fades away. Looking down at himself, he’s only distantly surprised to find hiking short and shoes have replaced his pressed jeans, a long-sleeved linen shirt hiding his wrists from the general view. In for an abduction, in for a clothes change, or something like that.
He lets Loki guide him into the woods, the smell of green covering everything else, and doesn’t think to ask where they are until they’ve been walking for a good fifteen or twenty minutes.
“We’re going to the Carbet Falls,” Loki says with surprisingly low levels of cultivated disinterest. “We’re in Guadeloupe.”
Tony nods, even though the name doesn’t ring even the smallest bell-he’s an engineer, not a cartographer, and there’s a reason he gave Jarvis full GPS capacities-and saves his breath for the trek ahead.
Two hours, one nearly-swallowed spider and a soaked sock later, Tony slips-limbs-waddles across the steep last leg of the trail-nearly faceplants into the mud, too-and hoists himself onto a sort of plateau among the trees, only to bend over in pain as he desperately tries to catch his breath.
“This is ridiculous,” he manages between two painful gasps, “I think I’m dying.”
“If you can complain about it,” Loki says without missing a beat, “You’re probably not in grave danger.”
Tony manages a frustrated glare in her direction while his body does an excellent impression of being stabbed in the ribs. Far better, in fact, than it should be. Okay, sure, maybe going on a hike so soon after losing a significant amount of blood wasn’t the best idea but he’s freaking Iron Man, dammit! Just because he doesn’t run every morning like Steve does shouldn’t negate the effort of flying the suit around. And in any case, how dare his body give out on him? It’s supposed to do what Tony wants it to, not take over operations.
Stupid hardware, never quite works the way it’s supposed to.
“Do you require a bucket?”
He manages to push a peeved grunt out, which kind of furthers Loki’s point-it does sound like Tony’s about to retch-but in the end Tony takes a few more deep breaths and braces himself against his knees so he can take a better look at the scenery.
In front of him, a beach of large rocks surrounds the greenest water he’s ever seen. Small waves ripple against the shore, and when Tony follows their path he’s not surprised to find a white, foam mess of water mixing into a larger set-upward, the fall stretches into a white ribbon over a hundred yards high, stretching over one rocky outcrop after the other and sprinkling at least two rainbows over the myriads of green on either side. The whole thing looks almost painfully lush, and it takes Tony a moment to realize he’s gaping.
He’s never seen a real waterfall before.
Well, he did technically see the Niagara, once, but he was on a business trip and too drunk to remember anything beyond a life-encompassing need to empty his bladder as soon as humanly possible. Not exactly a big souvenir. Besides, differences in scale aside, he didn’t have to put effort into seeing the Niagara and, at the time, he held himself up a lot better than he does these days...so maybe that plays a role in Tony’s sudden surge of emotion-maybe he just needs to sleep more-but his throat kind of closes up either way.
Alright, sure, it won’t turn him into a tree-hugger. It’s a waterfall, not a miracle. It’s still enough to make him forget about his current problems-the constant thrum of moving water providing an excellent sound-shield against his usual train of thoughts-and, like many things these days, tony feels ready to cling to it for as long and hard as he can possibly manage.
Doesn’t stop him from being a sarcastic bastard, though.
“Well,” he says, failing to sound entirely unimpressed, “It sure is a lot of water falling on rocks.”
“Well yes,” Loki says as green light solidifies into a complimentary basket, “What’s the point of having magic if I can’t get you a pool, a girl and a good meal?”
Tony snorts. The description certainly does sound a lot like what he’s used to-but somewhere in the process Loki decided to give it a sharp spin. The food, for one, looks far too ordinary and-or-healthy to be part of Tony’s usual diet. There are pastries there he hasn’t seen since his last European vacations and several others that look like they’ve originated even further east-the fruits are far pinker than usual, and although they make Tony’s mouth water he’s fairly sure he couldn’t name most of them to save his life. Loki’s current body doesn’t quite meet the usual beauty standards-she looks pretty but not the kind of Hollywood pretty Tony usually does this kind of things with-and of course the setting is literal miles away from Tony’s usual pools.
It’s like being in a jacuzzi with champagne and a girl, except not. Like his life, but not quite.
It’s certainly not something Tony would have thought of trying on his own, and honestly probably not something he’d be comfortable doing on the regular-hot tubs may be artificial but they usually fulfill their purposes very professionally-but it’s an interesting departure from his usual regardless and, if Tony’s being honest, it’s also full of possibilities.
***
When he gets back to the tower about four hours later-heart jackhammering with guilt when he realizes exactly how long he’s spent outside-there are twenty-five texts and almost as many missed calls. He spares a short, guilt-filled elevator ride hoping the ground will open up and swallow him and, when it proves vain, does his best to shuffle through the Talks planted in his way.
(Pepper’s, worry restrained behind professional calm and ‘I’m not mad, I’m worried’ like Tony is a recalcitrant toddler; Steve’s, hurried and peeved; and Bruce’s, trying to get it but not quite succeeding; then Thor and Nat and Clint and by the time Jarvis tries to ask if he needs anything, Tony barely has enough restraint left to stop himself at an angry ‘no’ before he locks himself in his workshop and tries to bite the tears back.)
Tony hasn’t had the energy for a proper smile in weeks-maybe even months-but he almost wants to.
It’s close enough.