aggravating | 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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[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.]

[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.]

[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.

[Charles just kept his expression mostly neutral, watching Tony, staying back from him telepathically both because he wasn't actually sure if his powers would work if Tony was in a Zero cell and because getting any feedback from someone detoxing seemed unpleasant.

So he didn't pick up on any of the intricacies, although he could make guesses. He still didn't want to linger on it, or discuss it too much, not while Tony was still ill. There would be plenty of time to have a rational discussion when he didn't feel like death warmed over.]

I see. Do you need anything else?

[He's glancing at Charles out of the corner of his eye, studying the man's expression, seeing just how pissed he really is at him. He remembers being picked up from the art room, remembers the text he'd sent Charles in response to being told his alcohol stashes were gone, that the rest of this ship was going to keep an eye out, keep him sober.

He knows he should apologize, knows he should focus on why he should apologize. But if Tony's good at anything, emotionally. It's repressing and forgetting. Tucking things into the corner and never ever looking back at them.

So instead, he tries for a grin, a smirk. Something to just... be an ass. To come across as normal, even if it means pissing Charles off even more.]

Scotch, martini, or hell, a shot of or twelve of tequila.

13th Command; text/spam

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