#tw morphine

Tony scoffs like he’s about to give a snarky comment, but then he seems to think better of it. “Morphine withdrawal, to be precise,” he admits with a sigh.

Bruce blinks at him. “You - what?”

“Yeah, funny isn’t it? And people always thought the alcohol would be the drug that kills me…” He lets out a bitter laugh.

“Tony, this…How did this happen?” Bruce immediately feels guilt bubble up inside him. How did he not notice? The Hulk stirs in the back of his mind and Bruce takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

“I’ve gotten in a little too deep since… since I came back,” Tony replies hesitantly. “Had, ehm, couple of bad injuries. My sternum was cracked, and I needed shoulder surgery, among other things. And then… guess it was just convenient. Drowning out the pain.”

He doesn’t say what kind of pain he is talking about, but Bruce has an idea that it’s more than just the aftereffects of the injuries.

“You...You didn’t tell anyone.” It’s a statement, not an accusation. Bruce has been carrying secrets around with him for so long that he would never judge anyone else for doing the same.

Tony shrugs. “I told you now, didn’t I? Can’t see you walking around with this sad puppy face of yours. Plus, I hate lying.” He squints and starts massaging the bridge of his nose. “Sorry about the experiment. You can go ahead without me. Give me a few days and I’ll look at the data afterwards.”

“Tony, you could easily afford the best detox in the world. There are people who specialise in this - they could work out a treatment plan, maybe give you methadone…you don’t have to do this cold turkey.”

“Not all problems can be solved with money.”

“But this might just be one where money can help.”

“I don’t want anyone else involved.”

Tony’s voice is a bit louder now, almost angry, but there is something else in it - shame, a feeling Bruce has always thought alien to Tony. But then, this is not partying, not sex, not drunk-crashing a new suit into the Hudson. There’s nothing glamorous about addiction.

“What about Rhodey?” he asks softly.

Tony just shakes his head, guilt creeping up in his eyes.

“Okay.” Bruce takes a deep breath. “Then I’ll stay with you.”

“Go do your experiment, Bruce”, Tony dismisses. “You’re not the type for this. Leave me alone.”

Translation: I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want to be a burden.

“No, I mean it. I can…” Bruce tries to think of a way that won’t have Tony refuse immediately. “I would feel better if I could at least take care of the medical side of things.” He hesitates a beat. “I won’t hover, I promise. I just don’t want you to do this alone.”

Another shrug. “You really don’t have to. Not gonna be pretty.” Brown eyes glance up at Bruce. They’re full of distrust, a slew of broken promises - and a flicker of hope.

“It’s okay,” Bruce assures.“I...I want to.”

Tony’s eyes hold his for a minute. Then, slowly, he nods.

Bruce doesn’t have to ask Tony why he agrees. He knows it’s not that Tony trusts him more than others; he doesn’t trust anyone, really. It’s not that Bruce is closer to Tony than Rhodey is. No, he agrees because he knows that Bruce isn’t a threat to him. It’s the same reason he once opened up about his PTSD. Because Bruce doesn’t judge, and Bruce would never use his knowledge against him.

“Okay, then.” Bruce takes a deep breath, mentally preparing a list of what he is going to need. He is not stupid, withdrawal isn’t a pony ride, and this isn’t going to be easy for either of them.

“Let’s go.” Tony gets up from the barstool, stumbling only a little.

Bruce frowns. “Where?”

“The experiment? We’ve waited for weeks to get these readings. Now that you’ve figured out what’s going on, might as well get some work done.”

“Tony, are you sure?”

“I figure I’ve got half a day until the worst of it starts, so let’s get to work.” He flashes a familiar grin at Bruce, who follows with a sigh.

*

“Care for a nap?” Bruce asks hopefully.

It’s four in the morning and they have been working non-stop for hours. Tony is trying hard not to let his discomfort show, but he’s sniffling constantly, a slightly haunted look in his eyes, and even his right hand is trembling now. Bruce has been trying his best to act normal too, making sure that Tony stays hydrated and eats something in between, and he’s attempted more than once to get his friend to sleep.

But the engineer just shakes his head, not even looking up from the tablet in which he is modelling the element’s other isotopes. “Go ahead, Brucie. I, uhm” - He rubs his dripping nose with the back of his hand - “distraction is good.”

The cravings must be worse than he’s letting on.

When Bruce keeps staring at him worriedly, Tony swivels his chair around and gives him a stern look. “Bruce, you promised not to hover. I hate hovering. Go to sleep.”

Bruce obeys, but he doesn’t want to leave Tony completely alone, so he stretches out on the couch. It’s the same one they used to have in the tower, judging by the very familiar scorch burn on the upholstery. The low hum of the laboratory equipment in the background and the sound of Tony tapping on this tablet are surprisingly soothing. Despite the lingering sense of worry and guilt, Bruce falls asleep quickly.

*

When he wakes up late next morning, Tony is still working.

“Hey, groundhog.” Tony wheels his chair around and rolls towards Bruce with a smirk.

Bruce sits up, groaning at the pain in his back that definitely didn’t approve of the idea of sleeping on the couch. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and squints at Tony. “You didn’t...”

“Nah. I’m clean.” He looks worse, though. His brown eyes are slightly glassy, huge dark rings below them and a light flush to his cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce ventures.

Tony shrugs. “Been better, been worse.”

Bruce raises a hand to gauge his temperature, but Tony flinches away reflexively. That’s new - another souvenir from Siberia.

“Sorry.” Bruce drops his arm. “Are you running a temperature?”

“A little above a hundred,” Tony dismisses. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that could stem either from the fever or excitement. “Made a lot of progress on the Sakaarium while you were getting your beauty sleep. I’ll brew some coffee if you have a look at it.” He presses a tablet into Bruce’s hands.

Bruce sighs. “Tea, please.”

After studying the data (Tony wasn’t lying about making progress - Bruce doesn’t think anyone would be able to get this much done in a week even in full health), Bruce goes to take a shower and gather supplies that he has a feeling he is going to need later. By the time he’s done, it’s almost noon, so he cooks pasta for them - something easily digestible. Tony, now visibly less energetic than before, picks at the food with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Do you want to lie down?” Bruce asks after he’s made Tony finish a small plate.

Tony shakes his head, trembling a little. He gets up gingerly, as if his whole body is hurting. “Let’s just...let’s get rid of it all.”

“The drugs, you mean?”

“No, Clint’s secret stash of Skittles. Of course the drugs.” It’s the first time he’s mentioned Clint since Bruce came back. It must have been an accident, because Bruce can see emotions swirling in Tony’s eyes just before he turns abruptly and walks out.

Bruce sighs. Tony has always been a notoriously hard person to talk to about personal topics, but since whatever happened in Siberia, it’s almost impossible to get anything out of him besides the constant stream of (increasingly cynical) sarcastic comments, the occasional remark about Peter Parker, and a never-ending flow of tech ideas. Bruce tried to carefully ask about the rest of the team a few times, but only got rapid topic shifts in reply. He still hasn’t worked up the courage to mention Pepper.

“Bruce?” Tony calls from the hallway.

“Coming…”

*

It takes longer than Bruce would have thought to get rid of all the pill bottles.

He knew that the compound was large, but he never thought about the sheer number of bathroom cabinets and kitchen shelves it contains. He doesn’t ask how Tony managed to get his hands on so many rations of morphine. He doesn’t ask why Tony felt the need to spread out his supply throughout all of the rooms. He tries not to think about Tony alone in the compound, wandering empty halls and sleeping off his highs in his former friends’ beds.

By evening, Tony is visibly shaking and ghostly pale except for the fever-flush of his cheeks. Bruce doubts they’ll be able to finish their task before his condition deteriorates.

“Just how many are there?” Bruce frowns, finding another pill bottle in a drawer in Sam’s old bedroom and throwing it into the garbage bag.

“Honestly? I don't know,” Tony replies from the medbay next door where he is bending over the medicine cabinet. “I reorder them every week, so they just kinda keep piling up. Funny, isn't it?” His tone is light, slightly ironic, but when Bruce catches a look at his face through the glass door, all he can read is pure self-loathing.

“Let’s take a break,” Bruce decides. He gets up stiffly and starts walking towards the common kitchen. “Tony?” he calls when the other man doesn’t follow.

“Just...coming.” Tony's voice sounds strained. The next moment, there is an audible thump and the sound of breaking glass. “Ow.”

Concerned, Bruce hurries into the room and finds Tony on his butt, a growing puddle of disinfection liquid soaking his pants. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to, uh, sit down for a moment.” Tony’s face is sweaty and his eyes a little unfocused.

“Let me clean this up.” Bruce goes to grab a rag from the kitchen and returns to try to control the damage.

“Have you -” Tony cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. A hint of green has crept up his cheeks. He’s starting to tremble harder under his oversized sweatshirt.

“I think we should move to the bathroom,” Bruce states as calmly as he can.

“Yeah,” Tony says, swallowing again. “Agreed.”

It takes half an hour of shallow breathing and spitting into the toilet accompanied by less and less convincing jokes until Tony actually brings something up, but then he doesn't stop for a long time. Being a doctor, Bruce has ample experience seeing people vomit. Still, he can’t help but feel a little queasy himself when he watches Tony bring up everything he’s eaten over the past day before descending into dry retches.

“You ever had a hangover that makes you feel like your stomach is literally trying to evacuate your body?” Tony pants, slumping onto the toilet seat after another round of dry heaves. “Because that’s what this feels like.”

He discarded his t-shirt long ago and his whole upper body is shiny with sweat. Bruce can still see some of the fading bruises from the fight. Tony’s chest is a whole maze of scars, some still fresh from the operations he must have undergone after returning from Siberia.

“You know I don’t drink.” Bruce cringes when another heave wracks through Tony’s body.

“Yes, Brucie, atta boy - how could I forget?” he says upon surfacing.

Even through the worst of the nausea, Tony is keeping up something resembling small talk, but it’s getting harder and harder for him to hide the pain and fatigue on his face.

Bruce puts a wet cloth on the ground next to him and Tony takes it gratefully, wiping the sweat off his forehead and pressing his face into the coolness.

“Here.” Bruce offers a cup of water.

“Noooo,” Tony whines. “What’s the point?”

“You're dehydrating fast. And I was told it hurts less if there's something in your stomach.”

“Blatant lies.” Tony drinks, his face contorting into a grimace. “God.” He bends over the toilet bowl, waiting for the inevitable.

Bruce carefully lays a hand on his back, rubbing up and down and checking the fever. Tony is definitely running warmer now.

His breath hitches. Then the few sips of water he managed to swallow splash back into the bowl.

*

When Tony is done puking for the time being, Bruce suggests they shift to the bedroom, but Tony insists on moving back to the lab. He settles on the same couch Bruce slept on the previous night, listlessly moving holograms to and fro in the air above him. Bruce isn’t exactly sure what he’s working on, but he suspects that not much progress is being made. Still, as long as distraction seems to help, he chooses not to say anything.

After a while, Tony gets up again and shuffles towards the bathroom.

“You’re gonna be sick again?” Bruce asks.

Tony just shakes his head with a scrunched expression, then locks the door behind him. Bruce sighs, guessing what’s going on, and decides not to disturb. Instead, he gets up to brew a special mint and ginger tea with a lot of sugar that he puts into the fridge for later use.

Tony returns after a while, his mouth a tight line, and refuses the saltines and water Bruce pushes towards him. He’s looking worse than just hours ago, as if he’s been ill with the flu for weeks. He drops onto the couch, picks up the tablet, and holds it up in front of his face. Bruce suspects that he closed his eyes, since he isn’t even scrolling.

After a while, a holo screen next to Tony lights up. “You have a voice message from Peter Parker, Boss,” FRIDAY informs him. Bruce blinks in surprise. It’s late evening already. But then, teenagers are not exactly known for their regular sleep schedules.

The warm feeling he got upon realising that FRIDAY is programmed to directly pass on Peter’s messages vanishes when Tony tells the A.I. to ignore it.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks before he can stop himself.

“I’ve got stuff to do.”

“But Tony, what if something happened?”

“His A.I. would have alerted me. This is nothing important.”

“Don’t you think -”

“Geez, Bruce, give it a rest. You’re not my PA, okay?”

“I’m sorry, I just -”

“I knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here.” Tony runs his shaking hands through his hair, looking more pathetic than actually angry. “I, I need a break. I need a shower.”

He pushes himself to his feet with visible difficulty and stomps off towards the bathroom.

Bruce shakes his head in confusion. Peter seems to be one of the few good things that have happened during the time Bruce was gone. The doctor mostly keeps to himself these days, but he has met Peter once or twice during their lab afternoons and was touched by how awkwardly paternal Tony acts around him. Ignoring his messages doesn’t fit into that schema at all.

The message on the screen is still blinking. Bruce’s curiosity, fueled by a little bit of defiance, gets the upper hand. “FRIDAY, can you play the message to me?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner. You have full security clearance for it.”

“Hey, uhm, Mr. Stark, it’s Peter,” the teenager’s high-pitched voice issues from the speakers. “I’m, uh...I just wanted to apologise again for yesterday in case, uh, in case I said anything wrong? I know that you’re busy and it was probably really dumb of me to ask you, I am so sorry, I should have thought about that before. It’s really just a stupid school thing, and, uhm, I really get it you don’t have time for that. I was just thinking because May said it’s a good idea… and because you seemed a bit...down lately, so I thought I’d invite you. Anyway, I just, I’m sorry if I upset you. Just, uh, I hope that we can meet next week in the lab? I got an idea for the suit upgrade that you suggested, so… Okay, that’s it, I guess. Good night, and, uh, sorry again.”

“Tony, what did you do?” Bruce exhales, sitting down heavily on the chair. He’s starting to get a pretty good idea of what’s going on. Another point added to the long list of things Tony Stark won’t talk about.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears retching from the bathroom.

“Tony?” Bruce knocks hesitantly. He knows that the whole Internet has seen Tony Stark nude, and Tony probably doesn’t care, but Bruce is uncomfortable with the thought of walking in on him after showering.

The only reply is a non-committal noise. Bruce carefully opens the door, his chest going tight with worry when he sees Tony curled up on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, dressed only in a silk bathrobe, his forehead pressed against the base of the cold bowl. His hair is still damp from washing. All residual anger in Bruce is replaced with worry.

“Hey, Tony,” he says softly.

“Hey yourself,” Tony croaks.

“Let’s move you to the bed, okay?”

“Hurts,” Tony mumbles, not responding to the question. “‘s like my skin’s coming off.”

Bruce winces in sympathy. “You’re gonna be alright. Can you sit up?”

“‘m pathetic. You don’t - you really don’t have to - “

“It’s okay. I’m here, Tony, alright?” He crouches down and slowly puts his arms under Tony’s elbows to prop him up, feeling the heat coming off him in waves. He has a suspicion that part of the withdrawal is actually alcohol-related, which would explain the intensity of his symptoms. Tony flinches at the touch and starts to shiver violently.

“I-I’m gonna -” He gulps. Bruce guides him over the toilet bowl and holds him upright when he heaves, bringing up acidic smelling bile.

“You’ll be okay,” Bruce murmurs.

Tony huffs and pushes himself upright with visible effort. He rinses his mouth while steadying himself on the washbasin, then shuffles to the elevator that leads to the bedroom. Bruce follows with a trash can, the tea, and a sinking feeling in his gut.

*

Throughout the night, Tony gets steadily worse.

He doesn’t fall asleep, unable to get comfortable enough to rest. Instead, he tosses and turns on the bed, kicking the sheets off his sweaty body just to pull them up again minutes later when the chills wrack through him. The little bit of ginger tea Bruce manages to make him drink comes back up every time in painful bouts of vomiting. At some point, Bruce turns on the TV in the hope to provide some distraction, but Tony doesn’t seem able to focus.

When the night bleeds into morning, Tony is an anxious mess, going from incoherent rambling to sudden silence. His fever is still rising. He’s been calling for Pepper intermittently, regarding Bruce with large, confused eyes each time before remembering where he is.

Finally, in the late morning, he falls into a fitful sleep, more out of sheer exhaustion than anything else. Bruce leaves him alone for a few minutes for a hasty breakfast of cold, leftover pasta and a much-needed change of clothes. By the time he returns, Tony is mumbling in his sleep, his face lined with agony, small tremors running through him as his hands seem to clutch the bedsheets for dear life.

Bruce settles in the armchair next to the bed and reaches for Tony’s fingers, holding them tight, trying to provide what little comfort he can.

*

Bruce must have dozed off against his will, because what wakes him up in the late afternoon is the sound of Tony screaming. It’s neither an angry shout nor a quiet whimper. It’s low and guttural, reminding him more of a wounded animal than anything human. He’s witnessed many of Tony’s nightmares over the years they’ve shared a lab, with Tony falling asleep on the workbench after hours of trying to power through the exhaustion, just to wake up with a gasp and wetness in his eyes. But Bruce has never heard anything like this.

“Hey,” he soothes, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He squats next to the bed and lightly pats his friend’s elbow. “Tony, wake up.”

Tony's eyes open, his gaze panicked. His arms fly up to his head in a defensive posture, as if shielding himself from an attack.

“Tony? It’s okay, you’re okay. We're here, at the compound. You’re safe.”

Tony takes in the room, slowly seeming to recognise Bruce, and lets his hands drop down. He’s breathing heavily and far too fast. He clutches his chest, fingers digging into the scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be.

“You’re okay. You’re sick, but you’re safe.” It’s all Bruce can think of to provide reassurance.

“Gimme - minute,” Tony rasps, looking on the verge of a panic attack.

“Okay. I’ll get you some water.” He stands up to give Tony some privacy.

When he comes back, Tony’s eyes are half-closed and his breathing has calmed down, but that’s about all there is for good news. The fever, if anything, seems worse than before, and the shaking hasn’t let up.

Bruce reaches for his wrist and checks his pulse. It’s slightly irregular and a little too quick. Heart palpitations are normal for people going through withdrawal, but with Tony’s history of cardiac issues, Bruce can’t help but worry. He pinches Tony’s skin and frowns when the white doesn’t fade as quickly as it should. He hopes they won’t need an IV, but dehydration is starting to become problematic.

Bruce has to raise the cup to Tony's mouth in order to make him drink while the man follows him sluggishly with eyes that seem almost delirious. His face is slick with sweat. Bruce wets another washcloth and lays it over Tony’s forehead.

“Cold...”Tony flinches away, seemingly from something else than just the physical pain. His hand wanders to his chest again, and Bruce thinks he can make out some newer scars across the old ones. Tony slurs something and Bruce catches Steve’s name.

“Steve’s not here, alright? It’s just us, Tony. Please, have a bit more water...”

Tony shakes his head, his expression conveying fear, sadness, and guilt.

What happened in Siberia, Tony? Bruce thinks. What did Steve do to you? What did you do to each other?

*

“...Bruce?”

The doctor hears the voice while he’s busy cleaning out the trash can in the bathroom from the last vomiting episode, but if he hadn't known it was Tony, he wouldn’t have recognised it. It’s weak and scared and nothing about it seems to belong to Iron Man. Bruce quickly rinses the can and steps back into the room.

“Hey, I'm here,” he reassures, trying to keep the tiredness from his tone. Tony is much, much worse off, but two days with hardly any sleep are starting to take their toll on Bruce as well.

Tony is sitting on the edge of the bed, his whole body swaying, his eyes large and wet. “B-Big guy?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

“For a minute, I thought…” Tony stares at him, blinks, shakes his head and sways dangerously. “Never mind.”

Bruce is there in two large strides, sitting down next to the other man and offering his shoulder for support. “It's me. It's really me, I'm real, I promise. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Tony slumps into him, burying his face in his shoulder. First Bruce thinks that it's sweat that's soaking his shirt, or that Tony had thrown up on him. But then he hears the sobs, quiet and terrified.

“Oh, Tony.” Ordinarily Bruce is not a fan of physical contact, but he’s never had such a strong urge to hug someone as he does now. He pulls the other man to his chest, holding him, shielding him. “It's okay, you're gonna be okay.”

“'s not about me,” Tony whispers. “Every life I touch just falls apart.”

“That's not...that's not true, Tony. You did so much for me.”

I hadn't had a home in decades when you took me in. I hadn’t had anyone who knows what I am look at me without fear before I met you. He thinks of ways to vocalise the feeling, but Tony goes on, speaking so quietly that Bruce can hardly hear him. “I let the kid down.”

“What happened?” Bruce asks softly.

“He... He had a thing, a competition, from his college. Wan’ed me to come to Washin’ton this weekend. But I...he can’t know. So I, I snapped at him. Was...yesterday, maybe… I dunno. I felt like my father. I spent my whole life tryin’ to be someone else, just to find that ‘m no different. No different at all. And I don’t wanna…” he sobs, chokes. “And then… I had to stop, Bruce.”

And suddenly, Bruce understands. “You’re not your father. You are better, Tony. You’re doing your best.”

Tony weeps silently, Bruce holding him, until night bleeds into day.

*

“It hurts.” Tony is slumped over the trashcan after the latest fruitless attempt at keeping Bruce’s iced tea down. His eyes are bloodshot, his face haggard and his whole frame trembling. A trickle of bile falls into the receptacle. Bruce rubs his back, wishing he could find a way to ease the nausea, to take the pain away.

“I need-” Tony abruptly sits up straight, swaying as he does so.

“Tony, it’s alright. Everything’s okay. Just, lie down, okay?”

“No, you, you don’t understand, it hurts...I need my meds.”

“You don’t need anything. It will get better, you hear me? It will get better, I promise.”

And suddenly Tony is shouting. “You’re lying! Fucking get out! I don’t need you! I need - I need Pepper - I need a fucking painkiller!” His voice is hoarse from all the vomiting, and the shout is more of a croak than anything else, but it still hits Bruce unexpectedly.

Tony tries to get his feet under him. Bruce pushes him back down without thinking, realising his mistake a split-second too late.

There is no recognition in his eyes when Tony lashes out, barely missing the doctor. He is much too weak to do any real damage, but the Hulk is immediately alert, always ready to protect Bruce.

Bruce grits his teeth as he tries to force him back into his mind with sheer determination. This can’t happen, not now, not with Tony sick as a dog and unable to protect himself. Bruce sinks onto the bed, his knees feeling weak. All he can think is that Tony was right, that it was wrong to call Bruce, wrong to trust Bruce, because he is a monster after all.

He can feel the Hulk roaring in the back of his head, and then he’s hit with memories from a long time ago. His father, the row of bottles on the ground next to the armchair he would occupy on the days he didn’t go to work. Bruce in the hallway, and then the angry eyes turning on him, then the belt, the hands, the fear. His logical brain knows that it’s nonsense, that Tony is not drunk, that his father’s been dead for years, but the flashback is so strong that it takes his breath away for a few moments.

He slowly counts to ten in an effort to calm himself, keeping his eyes closed and listening to his own breaths pounding in his ears.

When he feels safe to open his eyes, Tony is sitting on the ground below him, looking on the verge of passing out.

“Okay.” Bruce forces himself into a calm tone despite the emotions churning in his stomach. “Can you stand up if I help you?”

“I need...it really hurts, Bruce. I need a pill.”

“You can’t have any drugs. That’s why we’re doing this, Tony, remember? Remember Peter?”

There's pain in his eyes, then his body flattens, the energy bleeding out. Tony sways on the spot until Bruce kneels down next to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into his chest.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” Tony mumbles.

“It's okay,” Bruce whispers, sadly. “It’s okay.”

He isn’t quite sure how he finds the strength, feeling dizzy himself from exhaustion and barely contained panic, but he manages to move Tony back to the bed. The other man isn’t unconscious, but he doesn’t seem very aware of his surroundings either. Bruce mechanically checks his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse, and finds all of them worrying.

He decides on an IV then, setting it up with calm hands despite his racing thoughts. It takes a while to find a good vein. Tony flinches a little when the needle pierces his skin, but otherwise doesn’t react.

Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed first, but then he shifts to the headrest and pulls his feet up on the mattress. He looks down at Tony, who has fallen into an unsettled sleep, looking ill, exhausted, and frighteningly old. There are traces of tears on his cheek. Bruce strokes them away, then moves his fingers up to Tony’s sweaty curls, smoothing them lightly, wishing he could give the man more comfort than that.

*

This time, Bruce wakes up from his own nightmare involving his father and the Hulk. He takes a moment to orient himself. He’s in Tony’s bed - must have fallen asleep in a sitting position and slowly slid down, judging from the pain in his neck.

Tony is asleep on the other side of the bed, curled into a fetal position. One of his hands is clutching Bruce’s shirt. He’s still pale as a ghost, the circles under his eyes so dark that they almost look like paint, but when Bruce reaches over to touch his forehead, he finds the fever has finally broken. He carefully uncurls Tony’s fingers and checks his pulse - a little weak, but thankfully regular.

After removing the IV, Bruce goes into the kitchen and starts to make tea for himself and a milkshake for Tony. He puts both drinks on a tray and returns to the bedroom, finding Tony awake and leaning heavily against the headrest, looking exhausted and thoughtful.

“Room service,” Bruce says in a sudden attempt to take over Tony’s role and lighten the mood.

“God, Bruce, you look terrible,” Tony observes, visibly guilty.

“You should see yourself,” Bruce comments. He sets the shake down on the bedside table.

“You didn't have to - we could have ordered -”

“It's okay. I wanted you to have something made with care on your first day.”

Tony takes the beverage with a frown. “What is it?”

“Vanilla milkshake. Easy to digest, and you need the energy.”

Tony takes a few sips, then, apparently realising how starved he is, finishes the glass. Bruce smiles and pours him another.

“That doesn’t work with my diet plan. Hope that FRIDAY approves of it.” He grins.

“Oh, I doubt she has any objections. You could use a few pounds, honestly.”

After four days of barely eating or drinking, Tony's cheek bones are more pronounced than ever, and his shirt traces the outline of his hollow stomach. But, looking back now, Bruce is sure that his clothes were hanging loosely even before the withdrawal.

“How’s the shake settling?” he asks, not keen on having to use the trash can again.

“Okay, I guess. I’m - Maybe I’m hungry? I’m not so sure anymore.”

“That’s good,” Bruce says with a measure of relief. “Maybe give it half an hour and then you can try some solid food? You can shower in the meantime, if you feel up to it.” He pauses before adding, “No offence, but you need it.”

Tony looks down at himself as if only now realising that he has a body. “Oh. Yeah.”

He unsteadily goes to take a shower while Bruce prepares a proper breakfast for both of them. Tony looks a little bit better by the time he steps into the kitchen, wearing athletic shorts and an old sweatshirt, his dark hair still wet. He all but inhales two cups of coffee and a slice of toast before leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks, putting more toast on a plate and setting it down in front of his friend.

“Sore. Shaky. But also almost human again,” Tony replies, opening one eye. “And like I might actually be able to sleep, and when I wake up, maybe I wouldn’t be weak as a kitten.”

“See, that’s a start.”

Tony squints at him, insecurity bleeding through his attitude. “I guess I owe you a thank you.”

“You don’t owe anything to anyone, Tony,” Bruce asserts.

The engineer snorts out a bitter laugh. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Bruce sighs, wishing for the day when Tony will stop feeling like he is indebted to the whole world. He doesn’t know what it will take, and he’s afraid to think about it because something tells him that Tony won’t ever stop before he breaks.

“And I…” Tony looks down for a moment. “I want to say thank you. You didn’t have to do it, and...I don’t really remember much of the last three days, but I know it can’t have been easy for you either.”

Bruce softens. “It’s okay, Tony. I’m glad I was there with you.”

“I don’t know how to make good on that.”

“If you want to do something, then call Peter Parker.” Tony’s jaw goes rigid and Bruce adds, “Not right now. Eat. Sleep. Try to establish something like a routine. But do call him eventually. Don’t let this chance slip away.” He pauses. “I’m- I'm proud of you, Tony. And Peter will be, too.”

“He can’t know. Ever. I’m serious, Bruce.”

There’s no sense in trying to tell Tony that there is no shame in addiction. He already knows that, in theory at least, but the standards he holds himself to have always been superhumanly high.

“Fine,” Bruce sighs. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. And you promise me that you’ll call the kid.”

There is something almost like insecurity in Tony’s eyes, something vulnerable, but he nods anyway. “Okay.”

Bruce weighs his thoughts and then decides to go a bit further.

“You...Your fever got pretty high, and you said some things. You mentioned Steve, and Siberia.” Tony sets up to speak, his expression defensive, and Bruce raises his hands. “Hear me out. I won’t force you to tell me anything about it. Ever. Just, you don’t have to keep it all inside. If you want to talk, I promise I won’t fall asleep this time. Consider it an offer.”

Tony looks at him, tired and a hundred years older than a few days ago, but there’s something like the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I...Not now. But someday, maybe.”

And that’s all Bruce needs to hear for now.

Tony almost nods off at the table while checking his email, so Bruce firmly takes the device out of his hand and ushers him back to bed. His heart goes warm when he notices that Tony has created a reminder on his tablet to call Peter later that afternoon.

After making sure that Tony is sound asleep, Bruce heads off to his own bedroom, swaying slightly himself from tiredness. Sunlight is flooding the compound. It’s still empty, but a different empty than it was the day when he arrived. It doesn’t feel like an ending anymore, but rather like it could be the beginning of something new.

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