[Of all the things Tony expects to hear from Charles, it isn't that. And stuck in a bed, weak enough that he can't move without some assistance, weak enough that he can't just get up and walk away, that he can't escape... it's not something he wants to hear, really. Something he needs to hear, needs to accept, but not something his mind is comfortable with hearing. But in the end, he'd brought this on himself, hadn't he? By calling Charles down here, offering up the information he had, he'd asked for this.
So, he sets his jaw, raises his head, his eyes, looks his damn warden in the face - he always forgets, until moments like this, that Charles is younger than him, he never acts like it, is the practical definition of an old soul - and forces himself to listen. If just so he can rebuke every damn thing he's saying.]
I'm a challenge. Trust me, I get the appeal of challenges. [But whatever smirk he's trying for with that statement gets tossed aside, forgotten in the face of what Charles is continuing to say, the words he's trying to get to break through Tony's head, and he has to look away, to stare at the wall, narrow his eyes at it as Charles speaks.
And he's silent, probably for the longest amount of time Charles has ever experienced in a one on one setting with Tony. He's silent and staring at the wall, listening and mulling those words over, choosing his response. His shoulders are tense, a muscle twitching in his jaw, eyes pinched at the corners in the way that set every line in his face - stress, stress, damn stress that was only just starting to show in the gray hairs at his temples, signs of age he normally covered up with crazy grins and a sense of maturity that made people want to slam their heads against the wall.]
My worth is measured in stock prices and percentages, in the amount of jobs my company can keep handing out and the amount of revenue we bring in. It's inventions of the week and what they can do for everyone else in the world, the next armor and bomb disposer to make up for the lack of weaponry Stark's pushing out. It's in approval ratings and magazine covers, how many issues a paper can sell just because my picture's stamped on the cover. You mix success with gossip in the right quantities and you have people eating out of your hand, you have an image that's staying at the top no matter what you do because people are always interested in seeing your next big break or your next big fuck-up.
[And when you stop being that, even for a second. The moment you crack and let some doubt through, the second you slow down. Well, that's the second a man you've known since you were born, a man who kept a hand on your shoulder and pushed you forward, showed you just how to play with the press, to field interviewers, to have a board of directors eating out of the palm of your hand... one moment, one slip, one pushed back deadline and you were nothing but dead weight. Useless. Something in the way and needed to get rid of.
You end up tied to a table in a cave in Afghanistan, chest ripped open and a knife shoving in deep. You wake up tied to a chair and staring into the lens of a video camera, men shouting - Persian; Dari; dialect primarily found in Afghanistan - all around you, demanding - Hungarian, he needs to learn it, just in case - something you know in your gut you can't provide. So you prove yourself useful, resourceful. One more golden egg left to lay. And then the man, your mentor, is standing over you in your living room, you're paralyzed from head to toe and he's ripping through your shirt, burning through connections and ripping your heart out of your chest, leaving you to die and never even pausing.
Because when the stocks drop, when the inventions stop, there's nothing left of you.]
I help people. [A useless argument, but he does.] Who I can, when I can. A call goes up, I'm there. [Killing terrorists, the same people who held him captive for three months, killed the man who'd saved his life, the man - Don't waste your life - who'd changed everything with his goddamn stupid sacrifice.] Not much of a difference between me and the other heroes, Charles. We save the same people, do the same things. What I do between risking my ass preventing nuclear meltdown is my own business. [But he is atoning, he knows he is. He'll always be atoning. Stark weapons don't just go away because he wants them to. His technology is always being used for the wrong reasons. It was in Afghanistan, the middle east, in the hands of terrorists. In New York, strapped to a bitter Russian's chest. Hundreds of feet above Manhattan, powering up a device that almost destroyed the world.]
Fun fact about being born stuck shoulder deep in the arms race. [He smirks, and despite the bitter amusement on his face, the tired but harsh tone of his voice, this is one of the single-most unfiltered things Tony's ever said to the man.] Something's always going to be your fault.
[Spam]
So, he sets his jaw, raises his head, his eyes, looks his damn warden in the face - he always forgets, until moments like this, that Charles is younger than him, he never acts like it, is the practical definition of an old soul - and forces himself to listen. If just so he can rebuke every damn thing he's saying.]
I'm a challenge. Trust me, I get the appeal of challenges. [But whatever smirk he's trying for with that statement gets tossed aside, forgotten in the face of what Charles is continuing to say, the words he's trying to get to break through Tony's head, and he has to look away, to stare at the wall, narrow his eyes at it as Charles speaks.
And he's silent, probably for the longest amount of time Charles has ever experienced in a one on one setting with Tony. He's silent and staring at the wall, listening and mulling those words over, choosing his response. His shoulders are tense, a muscle twitching in his jaw, eyes pinched at the corners in the way that set every line in his face - stress, stress, damn stress that was only just starting to show in the gray hairs at his temples, signs of age he normally covered up with crazy grins and a sense of maturity that made people want to slam their heads against the wall.]
My worth is measured in stock prices and percentages, in the amount of jobs my company can keep handing out and the amount of revenue we bring in. It's inventions of the week and what they can do for everyone else in the world, the next armor and bomb disposer to make up for the lack of weaponry Stark's pushing out. It's in approval ratings and magazine covers, how many issues a paper can sell just because my picture's stamped on the cover. You mix success with gossip in the right quantities and you have people eating out of your hand, you have an image that's staying at the top no matter what you do because people are always interested in seeing your next big break or your next big fuck-up.
[And when you stop being that, even for a second. The moment you crack and let some doubt through, the second you slow down. Well, that's the second a man you've known since you were born, a man who kept a hand on your shoulder and pushed you forward, showed you just how to play with the press, to field interviewers, to have a board of directors eating out of the palm of your hand... one moment, one slip, one pushed back deadline and you were nothing but dead weight. Useless. Something in the way and needed to get rid of.
You end up tied to a table in a cave in Afghanistan, chest ripped open and a knife shoving in deep. You wake up tied to a chair and staring into the lens of a video camera, men shouting - Persian; Dari; dialect primarily found in Afghanistan - all around you, demanding - Hungarian, he needs to learn it, just in case - something you know in your gut you can't provide. So you prove yourself useful, resourceful. One more golden egg left to lay. And then the man, your mentor, is standing over you in your living room, you're paralyzed from head to toe and he's ripping through your shirt, burning through connections and ripping your heart out of your chest, leaving you to die and never even pausing.
Because when the stocks drop, when the inventions stop, there's nothing left of you.]
I help people. [A useless argument, but he does.] Who I can, when I can. A call goes up, I'm there. [Killing terrorists, the same people who held him captive for three months, killed the man who'd saved his life, the man - Don't waste your life - who'd changed everything with his goddamn stupid sacrifice.] Not much of a difference between me and the other heroes, Charles. We save the same people, do the same things. What I do between risking my ass preventing nuclear meltdown is my own business. [But he is atoning, he knows he is. He'll always be atoning. Stark weapons don't just go away because he wants them to. His technology is always being used for the wrong reasons. It was in Afghanistan, the middle east, in the hands of terrorists. In New York, strapped to a bitter Russian's chest. Hundreds of feet above Manhattan, powering up a device that almost destroyed the world.]
Fun fact about being born stuck shoulder deep in the arms race. [He smirks, and despite the bitter amusement on his face, the tired but harsh tone of his voice, this is one of the single-most unfiltered things Tony's ever said to the man.] Something's always going to be your fault.
You can never quite get all the blood off.