An Iron Man Doesn't Need Therapy

Chapter 9

The door was taunting him.

A door.

A block of wood propped on hinges profusely scared Tony. A day had passed since his interaction with Peter, and he didn't know what forces were in play when he had decided to drive to this very door.

The flask of whiskey Tony had packed earlier lay heavy in the bottom of his bag. He considered taking a swig to calm his nerves. The pads of his fingertips hesitantly brushed at the stainless steel, brushing against the cork, but he pulled his hands away from his bag. He wasn't going to succumb to alcohol. He wanted to remember this talk.

Tony raised his closed fist to the door, his palms sweating. It hovered above the door for a second. He didn't have to do it. This was his chance to turn back. He could leave and act like this had never happened-

To his surprise, his disobedient fist rapped on the door three times, firm and loud. Tony sighed.

He needed to schedule an appointment with his psychiatrist. There was something wrong with his mentality.

"Who's there?" May's muffled voice came from the other side of the door. When Tony didn't respond, still wanting to beat himself up, the sound of her footsteps became closer and closer. The footsteps abruptly stopped at the front of the door and Tony knew he was being scrutinized from the peephole.

"Is that you, Tony Stark?"

Tony couldn't help but flinch. The tone of the woman's voice was icy, even more than the last time he had seen her. "Uh, yeah," he yelled in the direction of the door, regaining his composure.

"I thought I told you to never come to my house ever again."

Tony cleared his throat. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it out there."

"Actually, it's kind of important," Tony said. "I think it's best if we had some privacy." He didn't hear it from the hallway, but he was pretty sure May was scoffing at him on the other side. "It's about your nephew," he pleaded.

There was a momentary pause before May responded. "My nephew is gone, Mr. Stark. You of all people should know that."

Tony sighed. "Yeah, about that..."

May cursed in Italian. "I just said he's no longer around. All thanks to you, by the way-"

"Okay, I get it. Just let me in or I'll bust this door open."

It was an empty threat, but Tony heard the soft click of the door unlocking from inside. She poked her head out.

"This better be worth my time," she said coldly. She opened the rest of the door for Tony, beckoning him inside.

Not much had changed since Tony had last been there. There was something cooking in the kitchen, the aroma of chicken breast permeating through the whole house. Tony could hear the huffing of the kettle as it boiled water, as well as the ticking of the oven. The sound of classical music overlayed it, but just enough so it could barely be heard.

He walked down the hall, spotting the same living room he'd been in all those months ago. Nothing had changed. The same CDs and books were stacked under the TV, the same picture of Peter and his family was perched on one of the étagères, and the TV was on and broadcasting a talk show. The only thing that had changed, Tony noticed, was the coffee table. The last time he had been here, there had been a clutter of newspapers, phone books, and unfinished letters scattered across it, but today it was bare.

"I'm sorry it's so messy," May retorted. "We don't have maids." She clicked her tongue in disapproval as she made her way to the couch. She plopped down and stared at Tony expectantly. "What? Are you not going to sit down?"