[There's a long pause on Tony's end, one where he stares at Ariadne, rolls those words over in his head and... he's exhausted, still so extremely out of it. So in the end, he lets his head fall forward, hands coming up to lace his fingers over the back of it, buried in sweaty hair, elbows resting on knees being drawn up in front of his chest.

He's exhausted, and he knows, logically what this is. His brain chemistry going haywire, withdrawal and hangover flipping him from mania to depression faster than he could possibly hope to combat.]

With anyone else I'd probably just spend the entire time making their life hell. [The closest Tony's ever going to get to actually coming out and agreeing with Ariadne on that point.

Still, his hands slide through his hair, his head raising so he can pinch the bridge of his nose, head throbbing a little more at the mention of the damage] Yeah there's a uh, something I should be saying here, or... So just.

I'll build you something. Paint sorting robot. Little cleaner bots for eraser shavings.