My War Is Over (Original Unfinished Version)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Well, alcoholics- and don't give me that look 'cause I've known him for longer than you have- can handle a much higher blood alcohol content than people who drink in moderation can. So if what you've told me is true and he hasn't been drinking very much- if not at all- during these past few months than it's normal for his tolerance to have been knocked down a peg or two. His body isn't used to the alcohol like it was before which results in him getting intoxicated much faster than he's used to, making it easier to drink too much. But honestly? With the amount that he drank? That's insane for anyone. Alcoholic or not. I swear it's like he's got a fucking death wish or something."

The low voice, coming from somewhere off to Tony's left, filters in and out as though struggling to be heard through a thick, hazy fog; gentle and familiar to him though he could not for the life of him assign a name to it.

"Just...just keep doing whatever it is that you're doing there. I'm going to go ahead and do the tube regardless. You're fading and who knows how long he'll be needing that. Yeah, you're doing fine. Just a little longer, stay like that for a minute more. Relax, it's uncomfortable, yes, but it's not going to hurt him." His nose stings faintly, though it's a disconnected, out of body kind of sting. A phantom sting suggesting that the real, greater pain is unaccessible to his psyche in its true, raw form. A message from a far away, dreamlike world. A reminder, a tug to his conscious he cannot find within himself to even attempt to grasp; his wispy, fluttering thoughts unattainable as they drift in and out of his head; his body floating further into foreign, untouchable realms of un-being.

"Yeah, I'm making the call. It's 85, which is at the cusp but even so...it's better to be safe- especially now."

"Come on, Tony. Don't let this be your way out. You're better than that, damn it."

-oOo-

The ability to wiggle one's fingers and toes isn't a skill Tony can ever say he really takes the time to appreciate daily, or even monthly. He's never really had any significant reason to pay any particularly high level of attention to that mundane ability before; or at least not that he can recall through the fog in his brain, anyhow. But they do say that once you become aware of your unexpected inability to do something, your mind becomes fuelled with the desire to do it, regardless of how bizarre or mundane said action is. He can't exactly recall why he wasn't previously able to wiggle said appendages before, but nevertheless he takes a few blissful seconds to relish in that old freedom again until his senses switch on like a sudden, powerful light; bombarding him with the painful awareness of thick plastic filling his mouth and spilling down into his throat, pumping cold, bitter-tasting air down his windpipe. As if on cue his entire chest involuntarily heaves upwards, gagging painfully up into the contraption which seems to stretch down beyond his throat; a strange, helpless feeling washing over his body despite his ability to actually breathe. Someone has done things to him, attached things to him, while he was unconscious.

Not again. Please, I can't do this again.

His chocolate-brown eyes shoot open, the uncanny familiarity of the dark room (damp walls underneath his numb fingertips, eyes tracking their every foggy breath, shouts, screams, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain-) only furthering his panic. His hands jerk up as quickly as he can force them to reach for his mouth; leaden and delayed from whatever medication was thrumming through his veins. Stronger hands intercept his before he even gets close to reaching the offending plastic contraption.

"Hey- hey, relax. Relax, Tony. You're alright. Don't touch that. Shit, one minute." The voice moves to adjust something behind his head and out of view. A brief, sharp cold rushes through Tony's right hand, the unexpected feeling distracting him enough from the steady build-up of panic for a few seconds as he fights to gain his bearings. Despite the fogginess in his head he still manages to make the connection, albeit delayed, to drugs. Most likely to calm him down. The situation, a familiar setting for a majority of his nightmares, renders that effort quite counterproductive. The voice steps back into his sight, revealing itself to be Bruce, all gentle hands and worried gaze; who luckily mistakes the hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes as a side-effect from pain.