[He doesn't know what he expected to happen. Maybe... emotions, flashes of images. A narrated voice in his head, information being downloaded and tucked away. What Tony hadn't expected was to close his eyes and suddenly be right there. Amidst the smoke and dirt, tasting blood in his mouth and feeling weaker than he'd ever felt before.
Logically, he could separate it, could pull back enough to observe the situation as an outsider, not as the boy whose memories Charles was showing him, casting him right down in the middle of. But somewhere in the middle things blurred. Tony Stark might be brilliant, might have amazing control of his thoughts, his mind, but he's no telepath. And when things become that real, it's hard to forget who he is and where he is. Hard to separate himself and the thoughts, the emotions, the sensations of the frail boy desperately fighting to survive.
So Tony was there, shoving humans into the fire, digging and standing with a man's hand clamped tight around his own. Frail and starving and feeling bodies fall on top of him, tasting blood and smelling it, seeing it everywhere. He was there through all of it, sometimes more than others, sometimes able to step back, the jarring sense of I'm Tony Stark and This is Erik Lensherr coming to the forefront every now and then, long enough to push him out from the heart of the thoughts, the memories, long enough for him to see as a spectator, but that wasn't really the point, was it?
The point wasn't to watch as if it were some sort of educational film. The point was to feel. To experience. So every time - be it by Charles' powers or Tony's own stubbornness - he was dragged right back in, reality and a memory not his own blurring at the edges and- he's out. He's out of that place and Tony can relax, just a bit, just for a moment. He can shift, outside of his mind, can release the white-knuckled hold he'd had on the back of his chair.
It doesn't get better, though. Not really. The terror isn't there, the torture and horrors that made Tony's stomach roil. But it's not good, either. And he gets it, kind of. He thinks it's wrong, what Erik wants. What he tried to do. Killing terrified people just because they were scumb-
If Charles is listening, as much as he's projecting, he'll notice the sudden halt and scramble of Tony's thoughts, the memories of his own flooding into the surface, as he watches the memory being broadcast to him. Memories of sand and dry air, the burn and pull of hot metal against his skin, too heavy, but something he had to deal with. He'd hear the screams, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the metal around his body. Feel the impact of every one of them. He'd feel the heat searing out, burning the metal around his wrists, where the flamethrowers were attached, heating and burning through the jacket and cloths, reaching skin and all Tony could do is hiss and move forward.
People running, screaming, some running away, on fire, trying to escape. Others just kneeling, fully ablaze, skin peeling from their faces. Weapon crates exploding, people dying left and right. The people who'd kept him in that cave, tortured him on and off for three months, the people who'd killed Yinsen with Tony's own creations. He'd killed almost everyone in that place, had killed countless terrorists Obadiah since then.
And here he was, pretending for just a second that he's disgusted that Erik would want to kill the people trying to kill him.
It's enough that, as the memory winds down, as the story ends and Charles pulls out of Tony's mind, lets Tony himself drag himself back, fight off the disorientation, he can already feel the bile rising in his throat, is coughing, gagging as Charles speaks, heaving and pressing one hand hard over his mouth, eyes screwed shut and the other hand gripping the back of the chair. Auschwitz, the fear, the beach, Tony's own triggered memories, the realizations. For a few seconds it's almost too much.
And then he brings himself under control, just slightly. He looks pale, shaky, trying to catch his breath, and blinking away the last of the lingering images in his mind, dragging himself back to the here and now as he drags a hand hard through his hair, rubs at his chest with the other (that nervous tick back, a response to stress).]
... He's still psychotic. [The words are automatic, and the voice he's saying them in is hollow, shaky, almost hoarse. So he closes his eyes again, ducks his head down and presses the back of his wrist against his forehead, counting quickly through the first thirty digits of pi, just to try and get his mind a little more in order.]
I get it. [There. His voice sounds almost normal, again.] No more poking Jaws with a stick. [Finally, he drops his hand, looks up at Charles again.] He's still mostly crazy and I don't trust him, but I get it. That-
[He stops, another wave of nausea coming back at the simple memory of what he'd seen and... yeah, alright. He'll give into some almost hysterical sounding chuckles.] Couldn't have done this before the drinking ban, huh?
[His right hand is shaking, just slightly, and he clenches it tight into a fist to try and cover it up.
spam
Logically, he could separate it, could pull back enough to observe the situation as an outsider, not as the boy whose memories Charles was showing him, casting him right down in the middle of. But somewhere in the middle things blurred. Tony Stark might be brilliant, might have amazing control of his thoughts, his mind, but he's no telepath. And when things become that real, it's hard to forget who he is and where he is. Hard to separate himself and the thoughts, the emotions, the sensations of the frail boy desperately fighting to survive.
So Tony was there, shoving humans into the fire, digging and standing with a man's hand clamped tight around his own. Frail and starving and feeling bodies fall on top of him, tasting blood and smelling it, seeing it everywhere. He was there through all of it, sometimes more than others, sometimes able to step back, the jarring sense of I'm Tony Stark and This is Erik Lensherr coming to the forefront every now and then, long enough to push him out from the heart of the thoughts, the memories, long enough for him to see as a spectator, but that wasn't really the point, was it?
The point wasn't to watch as if it were some sort of educational film. The point was to feel. To experience. So every time - be it by Charles' powers or Tony's own stubbornness - he was dragged right back in, reality and a memory not his own blurring at the edges and- he's out. He's out of that place and Tony can relax, just a bit, just for a moment. He can shift, outside of his mind, can release the white-knuckled hold he'd had on the back of his chair.
It doesn't get better, though. Not really. The terror isn't there, the torture and horrors that made Tony's stomach roil. But it's not good, either. And he gets it, kind of. He thinks it's wrong, what Erik wants. What he tried to do. Killing terrified people just because they were scumb-
If Charles is listening, as much as he's projecting, he'll notice the sudden halt and scramble of Tony's thoughts, the memories of his own flooding into the surface, as he watches the memory being broadcast to him. Memories of sand and dry air, the burn and pull of hot metal against his skin, too heavy, but something he had to deal with. He'd hear the screams, the sound of bullets ricocheting off the metal around his body. Feel the impact of every one of them. He'd feel the heat searing out, burning the metal around his wrists, where the flamethrowers were attached, heating and burning through the jacket and cloths, reaching skin and all Tony could do is hiss and move forward.
People running, screaming, some running away, on fire, trying to escape. Others just kneeling, fully ablaze, skin peeling from their faces. Weapon crates exploding, people dying left and right. The people who'd kept him in that cave, tortured him on and off for three months, the people who'd killed Yinsen with Tony's own creations. He'd killed almost everyone in that place, had killed countless terrorists
Obadiahsince then.And here he was, pretending for just a second that he's disgusted that Erik would want to kill the people trying to kill him.
It's enough that, as the memory winds down, as the story ends and Charles pulls out of Tony's mind, lets Tony himself drag himself back, fight off the disorientation, he can already feel the bile rising in his throat, is coughing, gagging as Charles speaks, heaving and pressing one hand hard over his mouth, eyes screwed shut and the other hand gripping the back of the chair. Auschwitz, the fear, the beach, Tony's own triggered memories, the realizations. For a few seconds it's almost too much.
And then he brings himself under control, just slightly. He looks pale, shaky, trying to catch his breath, and blinking away the last of the lingering images in his mind, dragging himself back to the here and now as he drags a hand hard through his hair, rubs at his chest with the other (that nervous tick back, a response to stress).]
... He's still psychotic. [The words are automatic, and the voice he's saying them in is hollow, shaky, almost hoarse. So he closes his eyes again, ducks his head down and presses the back of his wrist against his forehead, counting quickly through the first thirty digits of pi, just to try and get his mind a little more in order.]
I get it. [There. His voice sounds almost normal, again.] No more poking Jaws with a stick. [Finally, he drops his hand, looks up at Charles again.] He's still mostly crazy and I don't trust him, but I get it. That-
[He stops, another wave of nausea coming back at the simple memory of what he'd seen and... yeah, alright. He'll give into some almost hysterical sounding chuckles.] Couldn't have done this before the drinking ban, huh?
[His right hand is shaking, just slightly, and he clenches it tight into a fist to try and cover it up.
God damnit he needs a drink.]