Chapter 2
The police sirens in the streets below him were a lovely addition to the cacophony that was already playing in his head. He felt his breaths coming in increasingly sharper bursts, even though he tried to suppress the feeling of panic threatening to take over. He couldn’t fathom why, he was fine, wasn’t he? He heaved a breath and muttered a quiet thanks to whomever might have been listening that the Tower was right there in front of him already.
Tony hissed as he landed the suit on the landing strip of the Tower, the metal grating against his injury. He retreated into the tower as fast as he could without aggravating it too much. As soon as got inside, he opened the suit and tiredly ordered it to follow him as he walked towards the elevator. He pointedly ignored Jarvis talking to him – bothering him, really – and focussed on keeping his breathing under control, calm and steady. Something was simmering just underneath his skin and he didn’t like it one bit.
He entered the elevator, Jarvis having summoned it so that Tony wouldn’t have to wait, and leaned back against the wall. The suit followed him into it and settled in next to him, head turned his way as if Jarvis was watching him in concern. He ignored that, too. Drumming his fingers behind him against the railing, he waited for the elevator to finish the climb upwards to his own private floor. He watched as bright spots of red splattered at his feet. Once he heard the sound signalling his arrival, he pushed himself off the wall and squeezed himself through the doors as soon as they opened. He forced his feet across the space to the bathroom, half-turned around to point the fingers of his right hand to the elevator shaft.
“Wait there. Stand guard, or, do something…,” he trailed off, already having turned back to the bathroom door. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t installed the automatic doors on his floors, just so he could slam them open and shut in moments like these. Instead, the automatic door slid open, nearly soundless, giving him access to the one room where he would truly be alone. Not even Jarvis would be able to get in there. He felt a weight fall of his chest as he heard the faint click of the bathroom door sliding shut behind and he slumped at the feeling. He stumbled to the vanity and braced both his hands on the edge, leaning most of his weight into it as he stared unseeingly at his feet. He must’ve lost a lot of blood to be feeling like this
Looking down at himself, though, he knew that wasn’t it. No, he feared it was born out of something more … emotional.
Still not looking at himself in the mirror, he braced his weight on his left hand so he could grab the medical kit from underneath the sink. He’d stored it there for situations like these, where he could avoid going to medical since he wasn’t actively dying, but needed some patching up. He threw the lid open, finding a fresh roll of gauze on top. Foregoing scissors, he bunched up the entire roll in his right hand and went to press it against the deepest part on his shoulder. He heard the soft hiss of skin grazing past metal and his breathing hitched. He looked down at his shoulder and hissed again when he pressed the material against the wound with a wet squelsh. The blood was warm where it seeped across his hand. He eyed the medical kit on the counter. If he didn’t want the wound to get infected, he’d have to stitch it up and infect it properly.
He wasn’t an idiot.
It had nothing to do with not wanting to be forced into medical if the others found out he had a stupid infection.
He slowly dragged his eyes up and away from the kit and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, interrupted by lines of red and soot stains that even coloured parts of his dishevelled hair various shades of grey. There was a haunted look in his slightly too-wide eyes that he didn’t like. If there were tears lining his eyes, no there weren’t. He blinked. The grey of his undershirt had turned black on most of his torso, a poor mockery of running mascara. Not that he would know what that looked like from experience. He had Pepper.
His eyes found the light on his chest shining through his shirt, the source of all his problems. He forced his breathing to remain calm as he took in the red smudged-shirt covering part of the usually calming – as if! – soft-blue light. With a grimace, he removed the gauze from his shoulder, groaning slightly as the fabric stuck to the edges. He bit his lip, watching as a few droplets of maroon dripped into the sink before he dropped the roll of gauze onto the floor. Raising his freed, bloodied hand to the arc reactor, he let it hover there, tapping his fingers at it like it was a sleeping beast, waiting to start snapping at him.
He sighed deeply and let his hand fall back to the counter. After a second, he went for the kit again and searched through the contents for a needle and thread. He set both on the counter and mentally prepared himself. Threading the needle was easy. He fought to get his shirt off for a minute, but decided it hurt too much to raise his left arm, stretching the split skin, so instead he grabbed for the pair of scissors in the kit. He cut away as much as he could and ripped off the remains with his right hand. His breathing had slowly picked up in speed and shallowness again, so he took another minute to calm himself down, pointedly looking away from himself.
He heaved another sigh, gripped the counter tightly with his left hand, bracing himself. Then, he slowly let go of it and raised the needle to where the cut ended at the arc reactor, ignoring how his hands started shaking. With his left hand, he tried to squeeze the edges of the wound together, groaning in pain as he pushed the needle through for the first time. The sound and feeling of the thread being pulled through his skin made him fight against a gag. The second stitch was easier. Slowly stitching his way up and away from the arc reactor, he slipped into a trance-like focus until he reached the other end of the wound on the bony part of his shoulder. He tied off the last stitch and dropped the needle on the vanity, tiny droplets of red splattering around.
Exhaustion washed over him, pulling him out of his focus. Dragging his eyes back up, he watched his work. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the job of stopping the bleeding well enough. He eyed the bottle of hydrogen-peroxide in the kit, deciding he didn’t feel masochistic enough today for that particular sensation and instead picked out the disinfecting wipes. He scrubbed the raw skin around his stitches until he was convinced there wasn’t enough blood anymore that could cause infection and threw the wipes next to the gauze on the floor. Problem for later. The scrapes on his face were also given a quick wipe, but they weren't deep enough to require more care. Unwrapping a new roll of gauze, he wrapped it as tightly – which was, admittedly, not very tight – as he could around his shoulder.
Too tired to take a shower, he left the medical kit sitting on the counter and sauntered out of the bathroom, over to his bed. He ignored the immediate onslaught of Jarvis’s questions, only registering the panicked undertone in the voice. Guilt panged only for a second, as relief immediately overtook it when he finally reached his bed. He flung himself ass-first into the soft sheets, barely remembering to pull the blanket up before his world turned black.