Beating myself up so you wont find out

Chapter 3: pain and stale cheetos

Author's note:
Knuckled down this afternoon to press out another chapter. TW for description of a panic attack.

Dread sunk deep into Tony's heart when he saw he was out of food. And by food he meant snacks. And by snacks, he meant packets of Cheetos gathering dust in his workshop pantry, the room in which he had locked himself for the past 24 hours.

To get to his room he'd have had to go up the stairs, conveniently in view of the dining area. He couldn't face the others so he'd retreated to his workshop accessible by the elevator out of sight of the table.

The pieces of his secret were slowly beginning to fall into place. All his subtle mannerisms, his remarks, his strange habits, the team had seen them all. And although the pieces were excusable on their own, together they likely had drawn some suspicion.

So Tony was now curled up on a couch rolling a cog up and down his still-red palms. They stung, an aching pain he was all too familiar with, but he deserved it.

He was feeling everything and nothing at the same time, numb to the world around him but painfully aware of every single torturous sound and motion. He hugged his weighted blanket tighter.

But then hunger came prowling.

"Sir, your blood sugar is approaching the lowest safe level."

"Jarvis, buddy. What did we say about the speakers?" Tony winced at the AI's voice, loud and sharp.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but you've not paid attention to the heads-up display in the past three hours. I had to bypass protocol. I suggest you-"

"Shhhhhh I know what you suggest. And I will."

As soon as his legs started moving. He just had to move. Get up off the couch. Nope. Hunger and exhaustion warred inside his subconscious for a good 20 minutes during which Jarvis continually berated him with statistics.

"Alright, I'll go!" Tony finally snapped, motivated enough to lift himself off the couch and shuffle towards the elevator, cog still rolling between his palms. He took a deep breath when he entered the elevator, hands hovering over the button for the communal floor. And then he took another breath. And another. And five more in rapid succession. And then the breaths stopped being deep and became short and shallow. He clung to the elevator rails, his cog falling to the floor.

"Deep breaths, Sir." Jarvis was no help.

Tony grimaced, physically unable to bring himself to press the button. The elevator doors closed and he was left alone in a glass box, heart pounding so hard he could hear it. Jarvis was giving him suggestions but the words slid off him like raindrops over a windscreen. Even the air was vibrating and the bright elevator lights were loud as thunder. To an outsider, he'd simply be pressed against the wall breathing heavily but inside his mind was spinning. He had to get himself together. He was Tony Stark. Stark men were made of iron. A little fear shouldn't stop him! And yet it did, which puzzled him. Perhaps it was because he wasn't getting enough outlets to be himself, constantly masking in his own home. Maybe his hunger was amplifying his symptoms? Could his brain be broken? If there was an explanation, - a problem - he could fix it! He was a busted machine and all he needed to do was find the line of messed-up code. And then he would be cured. Normal. Able to do simple tasks like pressing that DAMN button.

He desperately clung to the idea he could be fixed. It calmed him. Gave him hope he might not be this way forever. That this wasn't his fate: destined to need special treatment, broken forever, and destroying everyone around him. Yet Tony, who had never once sought professional help for his plethora of problems, would obviously find the answer himself. His issues were his own, not for others to have to deal with. And regardless, he was tough. He was a man. He didn't need help let alone deserve it.