Pity party time!
He’d told Steve that he was going to be up late, and that hadn’t been a lie. It hadn’t been the entire truth, but Steve didn’t need to know that he’d been marathoning Battlestar Galactica because the nightmares were back. The SHIELD therapists said it was PTSD, and Tony believed it; they’d tried to get him into therapy, tried to give him sleeping pills, and he’d rejected both. Better just to drink himself into a stupor. A hangover was easier to deal with than a pill dependency.
He hadn’t gotten very far - five episodes in - and so he was still able to convincingly feign sobriety. A splash of water, some mouthwash, a new shirt, and he was ready for Steve. Halfway through his quick wash-up, he started to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t clean up a little bit. There were popcorn bags scattered around the couch and several boxes of partially devoured Chinese take-out.
He stood for a moment, staring at the mess, shoulders slumping a little. It was amazing how he could summon energy enough to go for three days without sleep when he was building something, but when it came to clearing up the detritus of one of his patented Stark Pity Parties, he felt as noodly-armed as a puppet.
Oh well. Captain America would just have to think he was a slob.