Chapter Text
The call comes to him distantly, muffled by the half-closed door to the house. It makes him jump, and he has to soothe the barb of apprehension at the interruption.
“Tony!”
He sighs. His head drops back against the concrete, the rusted axel of the Rhodes' family sedan looming above him; he'll have to speak to David about ordering parts before he can do anything more. He'd known that'd be the case before he'd started tonight, but David had asked him to take a look anyway.
With a final breath he shifts, squirming out from under the car to stand up, scooting his tools into a pile with his feet and heading for the sink in the corner of the garage. It's a deep porcelain one, stained and chipped from years of use. Under hot water he scrubs at his hands, scraping the grime from under his fingernails, willing away the oil embedded in his calluses.
Things have been going well. They really have.
It’s been two months since he was released from the hospital into the care of James and his family. It's been two months of daily outpatient attendance, of intensive therapy and nightly mindfulness. Two months of trying to act normal. Two months of sobriety.
Two months of dancing around the fact he'd tried to kill himself.
“Tony?”
James' voice startles him from the doorway, and Tony looks up in surprise at his sudden proximity. He hadn't heard him coming. The sound of rushing water fills his ears, and he looks back down at his hands, held static under the now-cold flow.
“Mom’s calling,” James tells him, gesturing back into the house. He falters as Tony fails to respond, taking a second to look him over properly.
Feeling the weight of attention falling on him, Tony finally makes himself move, turning the tap off and wiping his hands on his shirt. He ignores the sudden sense of disorientation settling around him.
“Yeah, I know,” he says instead, voice turning easy as he crosses the garage, shooting James what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Just cleaning up.”
With that, he's jumping the steps into the house past James, heading for the kitchen before any reply can each his ears.
They're having quesadillas tonight.
"So it'll still drive okay tomorrow?"
David looks on worriedly, the dining table between them a mess of home cooked food and half empty soda cans. Tony sits beside James, nodding around his mouthful.
"Yeah, it'll be okay," he reassures, "you'll just have to be careful when you brake, it'll still do that rattling."
The conversation shifts as David nods back, looking relieved, and Tony's chest relaxes. He lets the sounds of bright voices and easy banter go on around him, allowing him the safety of sitting quietly and listening.
Living with the Rhodes' has been nice. Excellent, even. They're kind and funny and well-balanced, reliable in a way Tony has never encountered. It's the perfect environment to heal in.
And he's trying. He really is.
It's just a lot, sometimes.
He feels it coming from a distance. He always does. It's a rising pressure, uncomfortable and unwelcome, turning the world sharp and jarring around him. The sounds of cutlery scraping and voices overlapping clash and claw for his attention, tripping over each other and tangling in Tony's head. Oil hangs in the air, alongside the smells of cut tomatoes and lime.
Agitation, frustration, exhaustion. The need to flee.
He excuses himself from the peaceful family scene, slipping out of the room with a mumbled goodnight. He hears the hush fall as he goes, and the sinking feeling of shame curls in his stomach.
He tries to remind himself that it's nothing to worry about, that he's just tired. Everyone understands that.
Besides, they're used to it by now.