He wakes up while it's still dark, and it's generally in these slices of time that ambient regret seems to texture the air. Feeling unwell is part of the charm, of course -- hung over, windswept, and interesting is definitely a version of Tony Stark that sells. He sits up, grinding his eyeballs with the heels of his palms, peering around the room.

"Well, that was fun."

He's probably going to puke into the nearest, likeliest place.

But after that, and after he's run the tap of the sink over his head, he collects his cellphone, absently tries to straighten a tie that is no longer there, and puts in a call; "I need a spirulina, codeine, a cancellation of meetings up until about 4 PM, and all of that on a helicopter to airlift me out of Gotham, pronto. Which you were wrong about, by the way, perfectly uncrazy. Except Wayne's a little off the rails if you ask me."

The sun is out by the time he is on the rooftop, tucking his phone into his pocket, and turning his back against any particular source of light. It'll take longer for Tony Stark to complete his own vanishing act, leaving on a small amount of chaos behind in his wake, approximately two women, and a couple of tabloids to enjoy later on.