Chapter 5
Tony woke alone, around twelve-forty, to Jarvis’ incessant chirping. Looking around, he noticed the apartment was distinctly empty. There wasn’t even a trace of the previous night’s events; the mugs all clean and in the cupboards and no wine bottles in sight. Tony had just begun to think it had been a dream (because, really, he wouldn’t just start drinking booze on a stranger’s whim) when he saw a neatly folded letter on the bedside table.
He slid it closer, too nervous to open it at first. It said ‘Tony’ on the front, in delicate, curling letters, and he stopped to consider them for a moment. Who had handwriting that disgustingly perfect, anyway? Finally he unfolded it and read its contents.
‘Sorry for my early departure. I had business to
attend to, and you looked so peaceful. I fed
Jarvis, poor dear looked starving. Don’t forget
to relax; bubble bath, good books, etc.
Sincerely, Loki
P.S. 555-9338 – call if you need me!’
Tony tried to fight back a smile, but he couldn’t stop the goofy grin that spread across his face. He’d gotten someone’ phone number; someone who was honestly interested in seeing him again. This didn’t happen very often for him. He wondered when an appropriate time to call would be. How long should he wait? What time of day would be best? What if Loki was busy? Oh gods, what if he called when the man was at work, or worse, in a business meeting?’
Suddenly, Tony realized that friendships were a lot more difficult than he remembered them being. His phone buzzed its way across the bedside table. Maybe it was Loki and he wouldn’t have to worry about when to call, because the other man would do all the calling between them. The thought calmed him as he reached for his phone. The screen flashed ‘Prin. Coulson’, however, and he sighed and answered with a sleepy ‘hello’.
“Good afternoon, Anthony.” Afternoon? Really??
He checked the clock in the kitchen and frowned, just as he said, “Tony. Call me Tony.”
“Since when were you Tony? I thought you hated that nickname.” He hadn’t even realized he’d said it, really.
“Just thought I’d take it for a test drive.” He managed, mentally slapping himself.
“Right,” Phil’s all-too-steady voice echoed, “Well, I was just checking in on you. Did you make that appointment?”
“Yeah, Tuesday.” Jarvis jumped up on the bed next to him, sniffed him, then wandered to his pillow and curled up on it, cleaning himself.
“That’s good. Keep me updated.” Tony responded with a murmured ‘sure’, and Phil bade him a good day, hanging up. After the short conversation, Tony realized he had the next two days to kill before his appointment.
He spent most of his time in the park. The trees were all beginning to change color with the season, and the colors were soothing to him. He wondered blithely if this couldn’t be his therapy, instead of discussing emotions and feelings with some stranger. Maybe he could just live up in New Hampshire, in the middle of a forest. Near a lake… On a dirt road that people didn’t realize was there. Yeah, that sounded nice. Maybe Loki could go with him.
And what was it with his sudden fascination with Loki, anyway? Hadn’t he basically admitted he’d been following Anthony? And last night he’d let the strange man get him drunk, and now Tony wanted to invite him to New Hampshire with him, and wow, Tony was well-and-truly fucked, wasn’t he? At least he’d have a lot to talk about in therapy.
Tuesday rolled around sooner than expected, and Tony found himself sat on a plush-but-ugly sofa in a pale-blue waiting room, flipping through celebrity gossip rags, and trying desperately to focus on an article to distract himself. It wasn’t working. He was fairly certain he’d read the same line seven times, and even more certain that the clock’s minute hand was stuck. There were a few other occupants of the waiting room, but they paid Tony no mind.
Finally the door opened and a lithe, attractive young red-head stepped through.
“Anthony Stark?” He wasn’t sure what the protocol was, so he all-too-quickly raised his hand. He felt like one of his students. She gave him a warm smile and invited him into her office. Tony had expected a dark mahogany room, with a writing desk and books about psychiatry, maybe one of those chaise lounges or couch for him to lie on. He was surprised when he was confronted by a cozy, but beautifully decorated office, with two cushy arm chairs and a small table between them.
“Take a seat.” The woman said, motioning to the chairs while she readied a clip board with a steno pad and a pen.
“Er, which side?”
“Your choice.” After a moment, Tony took the far seat. It had a better view out the windows, and a view of the door, which Tony regarded as important, for a reason that was beyond him. “So, Anthony – may I call you Anthony?”
“Tony. Please.” He didn’t remember when he’d started preferring that. She wrote something on the steno pad; presumably his name.
“Alright, Tony, you may call me Natasha. We talked a little on the phone. You said you’d had what you thought might be a panic attack? Do you have a history of high anxiety?”
“Not that I know of…” Her pen raced across the paper again.
“Alright, why do you explain to me what it felt like, in your own words.”
Tony frowned. He really hated thinking about it. He started anyway; avoiding her eyes by looking around the room, “Well, I guess it felt like… Like my heart was jumping in my chest – like that feeling you get when you’re on a roller coaster and it goes down a hill or around a loop – and, when that passed, it felt like every breath I took never reached my lungs. It just sorta rolled around in my throat and then escaped.”
Natasha nodded, and wrote some more. “Alright, Tony, have you ever had any traumatic experiences in your life? Things that may have triggered this panic attack? Remember, you don’t have to explain anything, you can just nod if you feel like it.”
“Sure, my mom died in a car accident when I was twelve, and a year or two after that my dad got crushed by a junker he was fixing up. He’s paralyzed and has memory issues.”
Natasha nodded again, “Alright, why don’t we talk about that?”
“Nah, I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Tony sighed, “Because that’s not what caused my panic attacks.”
“It’s not?” She crossed her legs idly, moving her clipboard to her thigh. “So, what caused it?”
This time, Tony ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward, as if he was discussing a conspiracy theory, “Both times it happened someone mentioned war. The first time, in the park, there were these two women talking about a prisoner of war. The second time I was having my students watch a documentary on nuclear power. The minute I heard nuclear bomb, everything went wonky.”
Natasha frowned and wrote something down, “Have you ever been to war, Tony?” He shook his head. “Ever know anyone who has?”
“No. No one. I’m about as far removed from war as a person can get.”
“Hmm,” then more scribbling. Was she writing a novel over there? And was this supposed to make him feel better? Honestly, he felt the same as when he’d come in.
“I don’t think this is helping.” He said, finally. “I mean… I don’t feel any different.”
She gave him another smile, “My job isn’t to make you feel better. You’ve got to do that yourself. I can only push you in the right direction. However, I am going to put you on a low dose of Sertraline.”
“Um, no. I don’t need any pills to give me artificial sanity, thanks though. Very thoughtful.” He shook his head, “What is it with therapists and pills, seriously? Do you have an agreement with the pharmaceutical companies or something?”
“Yes.” She said, still smiling, “They give me free samples, and I help to ensure they’re targeting the right age groups, and inform them about side-effects.” Tony took a moment to be baffled before she continued, “And therapists prescribe pills because they honestly do help. Things like anxiety disorder and depression usually occur when there is an imbalance of serotonin in the brain, especially in cases like yours, where there isn’t a prevalent cause, aside from things that you’ve dealt with already.
If it was an imbalance of blood-sugar, then we’d call it diabetes and your doctor would prescribe insulin to keep your blood-sugar levels in check. This is, honestly, no different. Different chemicals, different part of the body, same problem; your body simply cannot correct it by itself. So you take medicine. Does that make sense?”
“Hm, never thought about it like that.” It actually made sense. And he called himself a science teacher.
Tony left his new therapist’s office with a second appointment slip and a prescription for what was apparently the generic version of Zoloft in his hand. He may have even felt a little better.