[Honestly, it's not what he'd been expecting to say. He'd meant to admit that yeah, maybe he did have a problem. Maybe he wasn't as in control as he'd thought.
But then, he'd remembered Bruce knocking a child out by slamming her against a wall, he remembered the wariness the young Charles had when talking to him, the bite of a knife digging into his leg. More than that, really, he remembered the fogginess in his mind during all of that. The way he'd been distanced, retreated into himself. Watching himself run his mouth and say things that just made everything so much fucking worse.
And he remembers when it hit home that he'd broken into his friend's room. Taken advantage of the fact that even if Steve was in there, he was just a skinny, asthmatic ten-year-old kid. He'd stolen from him, and gotten drunk.
There has to come a point where enough is enough. Where the damage starts getting out of control, past a point Tony ever wanted to see it go. He has a feeling, if he went home, without anyone to really regulate him, keep him locked away from alcohol, he'd be on a street corner somewhere, huddled in a parka in the middle of winter, warming himself up with a bottle clutched desperately in hand, fueling this addiction with money built from blood and war and sick profiteering. But he's not back home, he doesn't have the benefit of losing himself all day every day. He's on the barge, he's forcibly sober, and he's been forced to stare a problem right in the eye with no room to back down, to escape.]
I have no idea. [That, at least, gets his lips quirking up, has a huff of tense laughter escaping] You actually expect me to know when it's taken me how long to even admit to it?
[Private]
But then, he'd remembered Bruce knocking a child out by slamming her against a wall, he remembered the wariness the young Charles had when talking to him, the bite of a knife digging into his leg. More than that, really, he remembered the fogginess in his mind during all of that. The way he'd been distanced, retreated into himself. Watching himself run his mouth and say things that just made everything so much fucking worse.
And he remembers when it hit home that he'd broken into his friend's room. Taken advantage of the fact that even if Steve was in there, he was just a skinny, asthmatic ten-year-old kid. He'd stolen from him, and gotten drunk.
There has to come a point where enough is enough. Where the damage starts getting out of control, past a point Tony ever wanted to see it go. He has a feeling, if he went home, without anyone to really regulate him, keep him locked away from alcohol, he'd be on a street corner somewhere, huddled in a parka in the middle of winter, warming himself up with a bottle clutched desperately in hand, fueling this addiction with money built from blood and war and sick profiteering. But he's not back home, he doesn't have the benefit of losing himself all day every day. He's on the barge, he's forcibly sober, and he's been forced to stare a problem right in the eye with no room to back down, to escape.]
I have no idea. [That, at least, gets his lips quirking up, has a huff of tense laughter escaping] You actually expect me to know when it's taken me how long to even admit to it?