Drugs.

He needs drugs.

God, why didn't he get his drugs out before he went to bed last night?

Tony shuffles around everything in his bedside table's drawer until his hand finally stumbles on his bottle of Advil. He miraculously manages to grab a water bottle from under his bed without having to stand up, and, because some godly force must be taking pity on him, he's able to down all four pills while lying on his stomach. If he had to roll over and sit up, he thinks his head may literally have exploded.

He groans and buries his face in his pillow. "FRIDAY?" he mumbles.

"Yes, sir?"

"What time is it?"

"It is 2:48 pm," FRIDAY answers.

Tony groans again and squeezes his eyes shut. At least he was close. He said he'd be up at two; out of bed around three isn't too far off.

"Has the compound devolved into chaos overnight, or can I take my time?" Tony asks. With all the dumb shit the Avengers have been getting up to lately, he wouldn't be surprised either way.

"Everybody is doing well," FRIDAY tells him.

"Any updates on... anything?" He doesn't even know what he's asking about. Updates on Ross or the UN? Updates on the situation in Budapest? Updates on the situation with the Widows and the now-destroyed Red Room? For a supposedly retired man, he's stuck doing far too much shit he doesn't want to do.

"The owners of the house on Hollow Oak have accepted your offer," FRIDAY says.

"'Course they did," Tony mumbles under his breath. "It was double their asking price." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Shoot 'em an email that I can head up on Monday and sign the papers if that works for them." He'll let Natasha know at some point today so that she can pass that on to Antonia, and maybe they can get her out of here and in her own place by the end of next week.

"Will do, sir," FRIDAY says obediently.

So he has that taken care of. What else does he need to take care of? And, more importantly, what can he take care of from the comfort of his own bed, entirely by talking to FRIDAY because his head feels like a goddamn stress ball and he cannot force himself to move right now?

"Any updates on the pool?" Tony asks. That's another thing he's trying to work on. It was originally supposed to be a distraction and a way to feel useful post-retirement. Unfortunately, he's since realized that his retirement is a fucking scam and he can't deal with distractions when he already has so much other shit to deal with.

"Not yet," FRIDAY replies.

Tony groans into his pillow. All he wants is to find a group of people to tear apart a small, abandoned section of the compound and put in a pool. He already did the planning. He just wants somebody to come in and do it. It shouldn't be this fucking hard.

He reaches down and grabs his water bottle, taking a few more sips before putting it back on the floor. He doesn't even realize until he's done drinking, but he really has to pee.

Does he have to get up and go to the bathroom? Does he have to put his poor pounding head through all that movement? If his past hangovers have taught him anything, it's that the best treatment is to literally lie down and do nothing until it stops feeling so incredibly shitty.

Unfortunately, the alternative would be pissing right here in bed, and he has to admit, that does not sound very enticing.

So he summons all the physical and mental strength he can muster, and he forces himself to sit up, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. He grips his head with his hands as though he can physically hold back the pulsating pain that shoots through it. Why does Advil have to take so long to kick in?

Could he do something about that? He wonders if he could make a painkiller that kicks in automatically. He should add that to his to-do list. He's too rich and too smart to have to suffer like this.

Once the pounding in his head begins to subside, replaced instead by a constant, unchanging, drilling pain, he manages to force himself to his feet for his much-needed bathroom break.

From there, he could very easily go back to sleep for an hour and hope that he's less miserable when he wakes up. He's taken some meds, he's had some water, he's been to the bathroom. Everything's lining up for his second wake-up call to go better than the first.

But he can hear Pepper's voice in his head, nagging him about how Advil isn't meant to be taken on an empty stomach, and if he has to take more than the recommended dose, he should at least get some food in his stomach.

So he heads out of his room–

And he makes an immediate U-turn because it is far too bright in this hallway and his head already hurts like a bitch and he's not putting himself through that.

He digs around his bedside table drawer for his darkest-tinted sunglasses (an experience that makes him realize he shoves way too much shit in this drawer) and throws them on. Now he can go get something to eat.

As he walks the halls, he keeps one hand on the wall, gently brushing against it with just enough force that if he stumbles or loses his balance, he can use it to catch himself. He doesn't think he has to worry about that, but just in case. It's better safe than sorry, right?

He makes it to the kitchen without face-planting in the hallway, so he'd call that a success. Unfortunately, in less successful news, the kitchen is already occupied, so his hopes and dreams of a quiet breakfast are out the window.

Steve, Bruce, and Loki are all sitting around the table, presumably in the middle of some sort of conversation that Tony does not have the ambition to eavesdrop on right now. He just goes straight to the freezer. He's making himself some microwaveable pancakes.

"Hey, Tony," Steve greets him, almost cautiously. "How are you doing?"

Tony groans dramatically as he kicks the freezer door closed. "I'm not on the verge of vomiting all over the kitchen," he says, "so I'm doing better than I thought I'd be."

"Tony..." It's Bruce who speaks this time, and the concern in his voice matches Steve's. It's ridiculous, really. Can't a guy get blackout-drunk without everybody hounding him the next morning?

Fortunately, Loki decides to be annoying in a different way, and quips, "You look like you had a fun night."

"Oh, yeah, so fun," Tony says insincerely. He plops his frozen pancakes on a plate, and as he's putting them in the microwave, he says, "I'm pretty sure you just slept for, like, two days straight, so you don't get to judge me."

"Firstly, it was not even a full 24 hours," Loki says indiignantly, "and secondly, even if I had slept for two days, I would still continue to judge you, as I find that very enjoyable."

Tony makes a show of rolling his eyes as he turns around to face them. "Haha, very funny."

"Thank you," Loki says with a smile. "I do try."

Tony shakes his head to himself, and he does his best to suppress any hint of amusement from his face. It's weird to think that there was a time they shit-talked each other because they actually hated each other. Now he's pretty sure they just do it because it's fun (and because shit-talking people to their faces is one of Tony's favorite pastimes).

"Are you okay, Tony?" Steve asks, and there's far too much compassion and sympathy in his voice for Tony's taste.

Tony waves the question off. "As fine as I can be after binge-drinking half the night," he says. 'You'd think I'd have learned not to do this after the last time, or the time before that, or the time before that, or the–"

"Your liver's gonna wear out before you turn 60," Steve tells him.

Tony shrugs. "Then I'll figure out how to make myself a new one," he says dismissively. (He's fairly certain it would be a lot harder than it sounds, and he's definitely not certain that he could do it, but if it gets his friends off his back, he doesn't care if it's untrue.)

Bruce's frown only deepens at the remark. "Maybe you should take a break," he says. "Go spend some time with Pepper in Malibu and leave the Avengers stuff to the rest of us for a while."

I tried that, he wants to say. Somehow, I keep getting dragged back in anyway.

But aloud, Tony just brushes the remark off with a flippant, "Nah, I'm fine. Someone's gotta keep you guys in line, you know?"

Neither Bruce nor Steve seem thrilled with how this conversation is going – which is fair; Tony will admit that he is being pretty dismissive of their likely very valid concerns – and it seems that Loki is starting to pick up on that. The look of confusion on his face is impossible to miss. The logical side of him feels he should ignore that and not draw attention to the fact that his life is one giant shit-show, but it's already so incredibly obvious, he might as well crack a joke about it the way he does about everything he probably shouldn't crack jokes about.

So to Loki, Tony quips, "I bet you're thrilled to realize you're not the only dumpster fire in the room today."

"It is a nice change," Loki agrees. "Do I want to ask? I don't know if I want to ask."

"You're totally welcome to," Tony says, "but I will not be giving a real answer."

"Then I will simply invent a fake answer that makes you look bad."

"And I'm okay with that," Tony replies. His late-night binge-drinking session would also make him look bad. He'd say this is a fair trade-off.

The microwave beeps, and Tony flips his pancakes around and turns it back on. He'll be damned if he's eating unevenly cooked pancakes for his hangover breakfast.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, and there's far too much sympathy and sincerity in his voice for Tony's taste. "Is there anything we can do?"

"You can get off my ass," Tony suggests. What part of him coming out here to eat pancakes says please pity me? Changing the subject to something less annoying, he asks, "Is the Spider kid still coming up this weekend?"

"Yeah; I'm picking him up tomorrow afternoon," Bruce tells him. "I told him he's welcome to stay the night – and I'll take care of everything. You don't have to worry about it."

Tony furrows his brows. "You're picking him up tomorrow?"

Bruce furrows his brows, too. "Um... yes?" he says uncertainly. "He's coming up for the weekend? So I'm picking him up for the weekend?"

That does nothing to quell Tony's confusion, but fortunately, his brain does eventually process this. "Wait, is today Friday?"

"Yes, today is Friday," Bruce says, and for some reason, Tony's inability to keep track of the day of the week seems to make Bruce feel more sympathetic? As if that has anything to do with Tony's affinity for alcohol and not just because he usually has no reason to know what day of the week it is.

Loki props his head up on his hand, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "I look forward to officially meeting this Spider child."

Bruce grimaces, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

Steve seems equally as uncomfortable with the notion. "Maybe you should wait until he's used to the place before you try to talk to him."

"I could," Loki agrees, "but where would the fun be in that?"

"Not giving the kid a heart attack, for one," Tony remarks. As if having world-renowned terrorist Loki Odin-not-son in the building isn't bad enough, the guy's given Peter nothing but reasons to be terrified of him. He was not the friendliest person in the world when they met the last time.

"I will concede," Loki says, "that does sound like it would ruin the fun before it began."

"So you'll stay out of the way?" Bruce asks. "At least for the first few hours?"

Loki hums thoughtfully. "Maybe," he says.

Steve just looks at him, unamused. (Tony suspects he's at least a little amused, deep down.) "Loki..."

Loki sighs dramatically. "Fine," he says. "I will bother Stark instead."

Tony lolls his head back in exaggerated exasperation. "God dammit."