aggravating | 13th Command; text/spam

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13th Command; text/spam

So. Since this place is apparently just like back home as far as tabloids and gossip columns and the latest tumblr blog... for those of you who didn't happen to hear in one of the fifty completely open and unfiltered conversations about this particular subject:

I've been sent to Zero to sober up. Absolutely tragic loss to the extremely limited party life here on the barge. But. Everyone's invited to my room when I get out for a bit of fun.

[SPAM FOR... LEVEL ZERO VISITS?]

[Tony. Is. Miserable.

Regardless of how he's coming across on the network, to the few people who've pinged him, the few conversations he's had to have, he's not doing well. He's pale and sweating, and the puking's only stopped by now because he has nothing left in him. He's shaking from the withdrawal, just kind of huddled in a corner, a few water bottles scattered around him and his communicator within grabbing distance.

He's pissed for no reason, paranoid and anxious, depressed, and a little out of breath. Because despite the glowing blue circle in his chest making sure his heart keeps beating at a relatively steady rate? It's still pounding and racing, sending small spasms through the damaged muscles around the metal casing shoved in his sternum.

He looks like crap, he feels like crap, and what's even worse? He knows he's going to have visitors. Because for some reason, despite his absolute best efforts to keep it from happening? People on this hell barge actually seem to worry. It's weird.]

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[The staring is fair enough. She's not quite sure why she's here, either, aside from that vague feeling of responsibility (and okay, maybe her argument with Barron about it).

And really, she's not fooled for a moment. She doesn't exactly have much experience, but Tony looks like death warmed over right now, there's just no way to hide how he's feeling, even if he can manage to hide some of the psychological symptoms.]

I don't know. He hasn't visited you yet? [She shrugs and offers Tony the toast and crackers.] I always start bland. Settles my stomach.

[He's getting seriously tired of all these people checking up on him. Namely just because... he's not entirely sure what to do with it. Or about it. He's used to people coming by, snapping a picture, prodding his sorry ass for interviews. And... yeah, sure, it makes sense that Cap would be seeing if he's alive or something.

But considering all the other people also bringing him water, food, clothes...

It's just weird. Different. Not something Tony's used to. So, finally, Tony's slumped closer to the doorway, able to give Steve a two fingered, weak wristed salute when he comes into sight.]

Still breathing, you can get over your paranoid check-ins, soldier.

[Perry's shift watching over Zero is patently uneventful; he makes a brief pit stop before showing up, but doesn't bring attention to it, doesn't talk, doesn't hover, doesn't pay Tony much acknowledgement at all-- save to pass him the last of Kozak's leftover painkillers.

He's seen every stage of this before (hell, Tony, you're practically Hollywood incarnate right now) and knows for a fact that every little bit better than over the counter helps.

Whatever the gesture itself implies, well. You're on your own with that.]

I'd hope so. ...I'd like to talk, when you're feeling a little better. [...It might sound like a request, but it's not, not really.]

But do you need anything else, right now?

[That sounds extremely unpleasant. Zev shows up at Zero, and while she's not all that endeared to Tony's reasons for being down here, she wants to make sure he's okay.

He doesn't sound okay.

She couldn't read his message all that well, and doesn't really understand what he's going through, but she sits cross legged in front of his cell with 790 in her lap anyway, staring in with that ever-present expression of compassion.]

What happened to you?

Nah, man. At law school, they weren't really into it. A boring lot of guys.

[THAT IS LITERALLY EXACTLY WHAT HE WANTS TO DO TONY. You didn't get the memo about him desperately craving attention?]

Insults? Why would I need to insult a man so entirely ruined by his own hand? No, t'was merely a description rooted in truth.

Not only dead, but dead drunkard, and forcing friends and trusted keepers to suffer for it...

Maybe you should build me a computer instead, so I can get new music on my iPod. Left mine at home.

[ Hey, the CES is a perfectly valid option. And less likely to involve copious amounts of cleaning. ]

[It's called making sure he's not actually dead, because he sure as hell smells like it. And kind of looks like it. And man, Dean really, really gets feeling like it would be better. He gives up the ibuprofen willingly and shakes his head.]

Nah, man, for a couple reasons. You won't like the deathtoll much better and it'll drag on for longer, trust me on this one. [He steps back from the bars, finding a comfortable position to lean on the wall, folding his arms.] And none of the drugs even touch deathtoll pain. It's been a while, but I definitely remember that shit. At least ibuprofen'll do for the headache and fever.

If you try to overdose on that shit, I'm never forgiving you.

[To be honest, for the first few hours he hadn't even really noticed Charles had been there. He'd been too busy leaning over a toilet, a bucket, emptying everything out of his system. His mind had whirled and flickered and had been going too slow and too fast all at once. Delirium had set in, for a while, as the immediate withdrawal warred with his hangover.

The last few times, though, he'd been getting better. Still miserable, still dry heaving, still pale as all hell, but he'd noticed Charles' presence, hadn't been able to acknowledge it, but he'd still noticed it.

This time, however, Tony's sitting up instead of slumped on his side. He's still shaking, still breathing quickly and laboriously, but his eyes are more focused, honing in on Charles' figure on the-]

Like shit. [His voice is even worse than earlier. Weaker, scratchier, like he's been swallowing nails and gargling with acid. Still, he sits up a bit further, nodding in greeting and to... bring Charles' attention down a little.] You got a new chair, huh?

[It... hurts, a little. But he's had experience with this. With the feeling of disappointment, the subtle to everyone and crushing to him step backwards that people take. Rhodey mad at him for cutting off his supply to the military, the way Obie's face closed off when he denied him access to the arc reactor. It was like that, in a way. But in another way it's... even worse.

That was stopping something. Stopping something that meant a lot to him. This was... making something. Something he'd never made before, with tech he didn't trust with anyone else. Making something useful and helpful, meant to make someone's life easier. Something he hadn't managed to do before, something he rarely got to see.

And all he managed to do was fuck it up.]

You wish. More like a...coworker.

This conversation is over. Put down the communicator.

[Private to Tony]

I can [And am pretty much seriously contemplating asking for without your permission. :V] have the Admiral put a lock in place to keep you from seeing each other's posts on the network.

Edited 2012-09-12 18:41 (UTC)

Some other time then.

[Private to Tony]

Is this conversation over? I'll still my tongue on your word, but not on his.

[Charles can tell he's hurt by it, and there's a part of him that - despite everything - feels bad about it. It wasn't even entirely about trust being broken, or about personally being upset about everything that had happened. There was an element of that, yes, but Tony had been willing to take it apart and make a weapon, looking to kill someone. Charles wasn't going to let him have access to that sort of thing if he could help it, wasn't going to give him the temptation, because he really should be better than that, and so he'd hidden the other chair in his room until he could be sure Tony was back on the right track.

He might use it again later. But for the time being, it was better to minimize how much more damage could be done.]

For the time being, yes. [Because he had options, now, potentially, and while he wasn't desperate enough to take up Franklin on his offer, there were other things he could pursue, and he would maybe be able to walk again, and God, he wanted it. There was a time when he'd almost thought the choice to ask the Admiral to mend his spine had been selfish, that maybe he should reconsider, but he knew he couldn't live like this on the Barge anymore, and he just couldn't wait anymore.]

You look like you're feeling a little better. [Comparatively, anyway, in that he was aware he was even here, this time.]

here i thought i was being civil

[HE WAS HANDLING IT DAMNIT]

[STFU Dean Winchester, like you haven't come out of a hunt smelling worse. Or something. Yeah, he just really wants a shower at this point.

Either way, it takes a good portion of the bottle, but eventually, he's getting the two pills down with minimal gagging, just a little more out of breath than he was before struggling trying to get something even that small to stay down.]

Alright. Point. Bullet sucks more than hangover. Keeping that in mind.

[He tenses, just barely, narrowing his eyes at Dean and replying in the most careful and neutral voice he can manage]

Not a junkie, thanks. [.... just... an alcoholic.]

Nah, once in a lifetime thing. You just had to have genius level spacial recognition.

Boooooooooooooooooooooooooring.
Law students are always squares. They think study groups are hardcore.

Sure, what size? Always up for building a computer.

[God he loves self-cleaning places. Especially when the, uh "self-cleaning" part isn't actually Pepper and a cleaning service.]

[... Well that ones interesting]

Let me guess; SHIELD?

Smallish? My room's not that big.

[He stares at the food she's offering, and despite the last few hours and the hours he knows are still coming? His stomach's clenching a bit, empty and finally feeling it. But there's also anxiety, tension.

Taking painkillers from Dean earlier, while half out of his mind still was one thing. Now, he's a bit more sober, a bit less sick, and definitely able to get that same obsessive sort of anxiety he normally gets from the offer. Which is why he's awkwardly waving a hand at the visiting girl.]

I think he has, never said anything. Figured he just didn't want to actually talk, so... [He trails off, drums his fingers over his arc reactor to try and calm his paranoia, his anxiety - withdrawal mixed with his own usual issue with this - and eventually just grimaces.] Yeah I don't- I can't do... getting handed things.

[A quick, jerky gesture at the ground.] Thanks, just. Put it down, I'll get it.

[He still hasn't really let that hit him. That he'd been so willing to go back to how he was all those years ago. That being drunk had ruined his control by that much. He doesn't want to think about it, not yet, not while he still feels like he's being dragged behind a truck going eighty miles an hour. Later, it'll hit him. When he's alone and sober and back in his room it will really hit him just how out of control he's getting. How he's been drunk for so long, now, that he hadn't even seen the problem with what he'd been planning. That he'd just drunk more in preparation for his little... plan.

But for now, all he has is a nagging feeling of guilt. And that stomach roiling realization that something is very wrong. He just doesn't quite have the mental faculties back to focus on what that is. At least not right now, and not with his head pounding like it is.

So he focuses on the immediate bite of betrayal, lets his eyes narrow at Charles' allowance of this not being a permanent change. Not complete brand betrayal. He's overreacting, sure. Making it a little too personal, but... damnit. He'd made that chair. For Charles. This one probably couldn't even round corners as well let alone fly.]

The floor and I had a disagreement. [He grins, bitterly] Got sick of me losing my lunch and faceplanting on it. We're not talking right now.

[Yeah, he knows all about you and your polite commands. And normally he'd say thanks but no thanks and play... well, not dumb. Annoying. He'd play annoying and obnoxious and just generally a pain but, well, that was way too much worth right now.]

Forget it. I'm talking and thinking. Good to go.

[He rubs as his forehead, closing his eyes and waving a hand right after]

I'd rather talk now than later.

[Besides later... he'll be knee deep in withdrawal and probably swearing in your face and trying to take a swing.]

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