aggravating | 16th Command; video

[The video clicks on to Tony looking harried and, well, sleep deprived in the lab he's been given access to. He should probably be sleeping, considering he should really be off his leg still and it's like, ass o'clock, but who's keeping track, right?

Also, he might just be waving at the camera with the skeleton of what seems to be a robotic arm.]

So, I have things. And I've kind of forgotten who they're for. Well, okay, no. This- [Have some robotic skeleton fingers wiggling] -is the only one I'm still not sure on, so if you're missing an arm and looking to gain one of the metal, not-so-organic kind, hi. Tony Stark. I'll be your creepy prosthetic tailor for the duration of your stay here. Tips appreciated.

That said, anyone want anything robotic improved, I'm looking for projects that hopefully won't end up in a miniature robot invasion this time around. So if you want an alarm clock that doubles as a taser, toaster, microwave, and guard dog, you're listening to the right broadcast.

[Thaaaaat being said, he has a few private call-outs to make, so. Bye, barge.]

[Private to Dean]
I have a present for you. [And no, unfortunately, it isn't an automatic toilet cleaner.]

[Private to Natasha]
I have a few things. Also, you owe me Russian lessons. [And if his tone is a little less asshole-ish than the rest of his broadcast it's completely just part of her imagination.]

[Private to Duo]
So, that robot pet thing. I have it. Pretty much bulletproof and self-repairing. To a point. Sophisticated, kinda independent AI with basic protocols and a developing personality. Also to a point. Consider it a less annoying, more advanced Furby. Probably going to be a work in progress until I can get it to just the right specs, so expect some upgrades and tweaks to be needed.

[Private to Charles]

[This message is... well, it's a little harder to get going. There's a long moment of silence as Tony just sits in the lab Charles has let him run "wild" in, turning a piece of metal over and over in his hands. Finally, he lets out a breath of air and looks square at the camera]

I'm an alcoholic. And I might need some help handling it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[That was honestly not what he'd been expecting to hear when his communicator had let him know he had a message from Tony waiting, and while he knows Tony well enough by now to know that whatever was following was going to be something serious and not his usual asshole attention seeking self that... still wasn't it.

So Charles looks a little surprised and takes a moment himself to figure out what to say to that.]

Alright. Where would you like to start?

[Honestly, it's not what he'd been expecting to say. He'd meant to admit that yeah, maybe he did have a problem. Maybe he wasn't as in control as he'd thought.

But then, he'd remembered Bruce knocking a child out by slamming her against a wall, he remembered the wariness the young Charles had when talking to him, the bite of a knife digging into his leg. More than that, really, he remembered the fogginess in his mind during all of that. The way he'd been distanced, retreated into himself. Watching himself run his mouth and say things that just made everything so much fucking worse.

And he remembers when it hit home that he'd broken into his friend's room. Taken advantage of the fact that even if Steve was in there, he was just a skinny, asthmatic ten-year-old kid. He'd stolen from him, and gotten drunk.

There has to come a point where enough is enough. Where the damage starts getting out of control, past a point Tony ever wanted to see it go. He has a feeling, if he went home, without anyone to really regulate him, keep him locked away from alcohol, he'd be on a street corner somewhere, huddled in a parka in the middle of winter, warming himself up with a bottle clutched desperately in hand, fueling this addiction with money built from blood and war and sick profiteering. But he's not back home, he doesn't have the benefit of losing himself all day every day. He's on the barge, he's forcibly sober, and he's been forced to stare a problem right in the eye with no room to back down, to escape.]

I have no idea. [That, at least, gets his lips quirking up, has a huff of tense laughter escaping] You actually expect me to know when it's taken me how long to even admit to it?

Fair point. [Charles is trying to walk the line of being casual and serious, while still being concerned and open and attentive, and it's a bit more difficult with this after the flood, because the question he's going to ask? He thinks he already knows the answer to.

He knows what happened with Steve, and Natasha and partially what had happened with Bruce - and he certainly remembers being twelve, exploring with his best friend and running into a man who was fundamentally a stranger and currently very drunk. And he still felt like he hadn't really been afraid - the more you said it, the more you believed it - but he'd been wary and cautious and sympathetic when he'd picked up on Tony's memories. He still remembered it.

He also still doesn't really want to tell him about his mother, or why he'd immediately closed off from talking to him when he realized he was drunk as a child. He'd literally only ever told Erik about it, and relatively recently, too, and it just wasn't something he really wanted openly available to other people because it would mean getting into thoughts and emotions he didn't want to deal with, so he just ignored and pretended they didn't exist. Repression had always worked for him in the past, and he saw no reason to change that now.

So he acts normal and gently pushes for more, trying to navigate what's equally uncharted waters for him. He's never had to help an alcoholic recover before.]

What made you decide to say it like that?

[He's just glancing up at the camera, giving Charles the most bland and incredulous look he can muster right now.] What do you think?

[But there's only a beat of silence before he continues, picking up the mini blowtorch and turning it on again, welding and bending the delicate wires just for something to do with his hands as he keeps going, forces himself to keep talking. As if he's simply relaying his thoughts, giving them voice, speaking to an empty room instead of actually talking about this to someone else.]

I stole a notebook from a ten-year-old kid to get a drink. For no reason other than I didn't want to deal with kids everywhere sober. If I was drunk, no one would make me do anything. If I was drunk, I could just ignore it. If I was drunk, I didn't have to take responsibility. Take your pick.

I broke into a teammate's room and stole his item and almost got him killed because I was too far gone to remember that telling freaky Russian assassins Captain America was on board and all you had to do to kill him was walk too close with a Labador was probably a bad idea.

[Tony shuts off the torch again, playing with a few of the triggers, the gears, watching the metal network of tendons and pressure plates shift and move, the fingers twitching at the end of the arm.] I got drunk. I messed up. And because of it I ended up getting stabbed in a hallway and watching a friend have to knock out a kid and almost destroy half the ship because of it.

[He trails off, reaching a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose for a moment, eyes screwing shut] I tried to turn your wheelchair into a weapon. You threw me in Zero to get it out of my system, and I still...

[Deep breaths, Tony. Getting pissed - at the situation, himself, Charles, the barge, Pepper not being here - wasn't going to help anything.]

I'm not saying it again, so you know. Once is- let's just. Go from there.

[He's already regretting this.]

[Charles is patient and waits out the explanation and the obvious discomfort. He'd wanted to hear him say it, to be sure he really understood the weight of his actions and inaction, and he's more than happy to back off when he sees the direction it's heading in. Tony's said what he'd been hoping to hear, anyway.]

Tony, stop. This is a good thing. This is progress. [He smiles a little, trying to ease some of the tension with humor while still pointedly reminding him of why this was a good thing.] And the more progress you make, the less time you're going to have to spend listening to me talk, and the closer you get to helping Agent Coulson, or whoever you'd like to make a deal for.

Has having projects helped?

[For once, he stops when Charles tells him to. Just snaps his mouth shut and screws up his face, reaching a hand up to just press against his forehead as the first nagging signs of a headache start up. The headache he gets now to accompany the sickening, burning need to pour alcohol down his throat. The anxious clench in his chest and the churning of his stomach when he reminds himself that yeah, as much as his mind might be desperate for the sting of alcohol hitting the back of his throat, the haze it leaves him in a few glasses in? It's not coming.]

Right. Progress. [He drops his hand from his head, sinking back in his chair as he stares off at a point a few feet to the left of the communicator sitting on his desk, fingers snapping absently, hand hitting a fist before snapping again, moving. A nervous habit, a flurry of movement, complicated, twitchy movements he never actually fully realizes he's making.

He inhales, sharp, at the mention of Coulson, and straightens in his chair, as if snapping himself back to the conversation, out of his thoughts.] Yeah uh, that lecture thing you do? I have a few pointers to make them less yawn inducing. Most include dancing showgirls, explosions, and a monkey with a chainsaw.

[There's a slight smile pulling at the corner of Tony's lips, though. Tired and more of a grimace, but it's an attempt] I don't do idle well. Bored even less. Projects always help.

16th Command; video

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