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"What are you wearing?" If Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes' voice had risen any higher Tony would have been convinced that his friend had somehow changed gender. But as he lifted dark, tired eyes up to meet the gaze of said friend, all such semi-humorous thoughts fled immediately from the forefront of his rather fuzzy mind. Rhodes was angry. No, 'angry' didn't cover it. He was furious. As Tony studied the other mans' face with a certain degree of fascination, he was semi-frantically coming up with various logical reasons as to the origin of such an emotion.
Thankfully, he was spared any further reasoning only seconds later, when Rhodes decided suddenly to elaborate. "The ceremony! We're already late!" he almost yelled, his wide eyes showing the beginning stages of full-blown desperation, "and you're sitting around in..." he paused, gesturing rather contemptuously at Tony's clothes - his usual sweatpants and t-shirt - "that!" Enlightenment struck. Tonight yet another ceremony was to be held to convey the overwhelming gratitude of the American public for saving their lives...again. Normally, Tony loved such occasions, and always took the opportunity to make semi-sarcastic statements to the omnipresent media in order to advertise himself and his long suffering friend, who was now staring at him in a way which warned of serious repercussions. Today, however, something was different. And Rhodes was determined to find out what in the short time they had left before they stopped being "fashionably late" and started being "plain rude." And just for the record: this really isn't his job.
"Where's the suit?" Rhodes sounded less desperate now, more detached, calmer. He'd taken on the tone of voice that Tony rather petulantly referred to as his 'officer' voice. The suit in question had been purchased just days ago by Pepper, when Tony had shown an uncharacteristic disinterest in the proceedings. Pepper had assumed at the time that he was just being difficult and had believed that sooner rather than later he would develop his usual and commonly destructive enthusiasm for such events. But he hadn't, and the reason was still a mystery. The suit, however, was less of one. It was draped over the central desk in the basement, just a meter or two away from the two men. Despite his best efforts, Tony's eyes flicked over to it, and Rhodes, of course, caught the movement. Huffing out an exasperated sigh, he grabbed Tony's bicep, spun him around, and dragged him over to said desk.
"Put it on now. We're leaving in five minutes." The words were rapped out with authority, in a way that told Tony that he was used to being obeyed. Naturally, he chose to ignore it.
"I'm not going." Tony spoke quietly, in a tone devoid of his usual good humour and perceived superiority. He sounded almost...beaten. Only inches away from him, Rhodes refused to acknowledge that final thought. No one beat Tony Stark. The man could face hundreds of robots built with the specific purpose of wiping him off the face of the world and still be in that absurdly cheerful mood that made Rhodes want to punch him. He could face an entire mob of baying paparazzi and not even flinch. He did not acknowledge defeat.
Tony watched the complex set of emotions flit across his friends' expressive features, and spoke to hopefully forestall any further conversation. "You go. I don't want to: that's all I'm prepared to say on the matter. You are going to be late; I suggest you leave at once." He spoke with the drawling articulation that he was known for, but that driving, fighting spirit was horribly absent.
As he turned to walk away, Rhodes grabbed him again, pulling him close so that they were, essentially, eye to eye. "What's wrong, Tony?" His words were gentle, devoid of his usual gruff approach. Tony yanked his arm free as soon as Rhodes unwisely loosened his grip, and stalked away from him, further into the haven of his workshop. After his initial surprise faded, Rhodes took off after him, abandoning the suit. "Hey, you can tell me," he continued in the same gentle tone that he'd adopted earlier, directing the words towards Tony's retreating back.
"I'm absolutely fine," Tony snapped in return. "There is nothing for you to be concerned about; go to your ceremony. Get your medals. Smile for the people. Give them something to cheer at."
"Forget the ceremony. If there's something wrong, I want to know about it." His words held considerably more force than he'd intended to convey, but it succeeded in bringing Tony to a complete stop.
Almost before he even realised what he was doing, Rhodes reached out, resting a strong hand on Tony's shoulder. He was prepared for the automatic flinch at this action, and merely tightened his hold as he stepped into the gap between them, moving to stand next to him. Through this slight contact, Rhodes could feel how Tony was very carefully holding himself in check, his muscles tensed but unable to prevent the slight quivers shaking his frame.
And Tony relaxed. It didn't happen immediately, but eventually Rhodes felt Tony's shoulders slump as he released a shuddering sigh, a soft, vulnerable sound that made Rhodes vow fiercely that he would never let anything hurt Tony again.
“I kissed Pepper," Tony whispered, sounding more worked-up than Rhodes had ever heard from him. He was about to make some reply to the affirmative - after all, he had been in the vicinity - and how it seemed like a joint effort from where he was standing, but Tony carried on before he was able to form the words. "Rhodes, what if - " Tony paused helplessly, "what if she hates me?" And he turned torturous eyes on his flabbergasted friend.
"Why," Rhodes paused for a moment, running the words through in his mind, "why would she hate you, Tony?"
Tony turned to face him then, staring at him pleadingly. And as he moved, Rhodes finally identified the scent that had been bothering him since he entered the basement - alcohol. The reason he hadn't realised this earlier? Easy: Tony. He'd been entirely unable to see/hear/smell/taste/whatever-other-sense-you-can-think-of else. Tony Stark had this undeniable presence that just floored Rhodes, made it impossible for him to think straight, impossible to keep his thoughts from wandering, impossible, even, to maintain any attempt at anger when he did stupid things like this.
Understanding dawned. Clearly, Tony had drunk past the point of idiotic hyperactive happiness that Rhodes was rather familiar with, and reached this terrifying form of depression instead. "Tony, you're drunk. We're not having this conversation right now. Here's what is going to happen: you're going to go to bed and I'm going to represent us both at the ceremony.” As he spoke, Rhodes took Tony's arm, and steered him back through the workshop, heading for the door.
Predictably, Tony wasn't too fond of this new plan, and responded typically: with petulant rebellion. As they passed the central desk, he squirmed out of Rhodes' hold, and made a grab for the suit. "I'm coming. Those people have turned out in their droves to see Iron Man, not his worthy but nevertheless markedly less clever assistant."
Rhodes didn't even waste time on being insulted by this familiar jibe. "I'm sorry, Tony," he said firmly, calmly.
"And what for, exactly?" Tony replied as he turned to face his friend, suit still clutched in his hands. "For bursting in here like you own the place - and, let's face it, your salary could never stretch this far - for harassing me, or for being deliberately pig-headed in demanding an answer for my less than pleasant mood when being in a bad mood is perfectly normal behaviour? All of the above require an apology, but as usual Colonel, you are being less than forthcoming in providing one."
Rhodes waited patiently until Tony's speech came to a halt, then, taking a step forwards he drew up his right hand, clenched it into a fist, and drove it up to impact sharply with Tony's chin. Entirely unprepared, and with his hands full of expensive suit, Tony was unable to avoid or block the blow. He blinked a few times in a way that Rhodes privately found adorable, and then slumped to the ground, unconscious. Inwardly surprised at the effectiveness of the singular blow, Rhodes just stared down at him until his brain helpfully reminded him that Tony had been drinking.
Then, Rhodes knelt down next to him carefully - this was Tony's workshop after all, so there was stuff everywhere - and plucked the suit out of his hands, chucking it back onto the desk. Then, with only a small amount of effort, he managed to slide his arms under Tony, cradling him against his chest. Glancing down to make sure he was still out - he was - Rhodes carried him up the stairs to his bedroom.
He laid him down on the large bed, tucking him protectively under the duvet. Looking down at him, he leaned in and kissed him gently, hesitantly, on the forehead.
"Good night, Tony."
Stepping out of the room as quietly as he was able, Rhodes pulled the door closed, but didn’t bother to latch it. He paused, hand on the door, wishing desperately, bitterly, that he could be in there, that he could hold Tony as he deserved to be held, protecting him for every threat. Not that Tony would allow such behaviour for long, but a man could dream.
“Look after him, Jarvis.”
“I always do, sir.”
This isn't his job, but he wouldn't trust it to anyone else.