[He's shrugging a shoulder at the apology, not really hearing it, just doing what he always does, letting it slide off, not actually noticing that it's been said. He's too busy pulling his mind out of the hole it keeps slipping back into, trying to stop tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, to stop feeling like every breath he's taking he's choking on the scent of burning bodies. He'd asked for it, sure. And he was determined not to let the images, the emotions completely freak him out, but...
At the end of the day, what people said about Tony Stark was right. At the end of the day he'd been a man who lived in the lap of luxury for thirty nine years. He'd been spoiled, thrown his money around everywhere. He'd had girls hopping in and out of his bed, had never had to seriously work even once to make sure that he had a meal on the table or a bed to sleep in. He had thirty five luxury cars, seven vacation homes, four yachts, two actual homes on opposite sides of the United States.
He'd spent three months in a cave, sure. But he wasn't a solider, wasn't living in a hole and fighting for his life. He wasn't a survivor of an event like the Holocaust. He wasn't born to nothing and forced to fight his way up, he wasn't trained for nothing but killing, didn't have an experiment blow up in his face and give him a pretty stellar anger management issue. He was just a genius who'd had a wake-up call he never should have needed. He was a guy with a heart made of metal and money, dressing up and pretending, for a moment, that he isn't like every other billionaire playboy in the world. That he isn't the selfish dick pretending that he cares about the world.
Tony'd been serious about this, about wanting to understand. To experience something like this, even second-hand. To stop, for a moment, being that selfish prick who pretends like they get it, but in reality can never even hope to understand.]
Trust me, I get it. [He's still shaken, but at least now he can meet Charles' eyes. But there's still something raw in his expression, the flicker of residual unease, anger, and terror as his mind processes the memories for the umpteenth time since Charles had broadcast them. Finally, though, his lips quirk up in a tired, bitter half of a smirk.] Probably for the first time in my life, I get it.
[He's just kind of letting his head fall forward a little, forehead resting on the back of the hand clutching at the back of the chair, his other hand up and moving, gesturing from Charles to his own head in probably the vaguest read my mind gesture in the world.
Because damnit, Tony's tired. He's tired and emotional and still processing the memories, picking them over in excruciating detail, because that's just how his mind worked. It picked everything apart a hundred times over, memories every little detail and analyzed it thoroughly.
So instead of talking, because words are just too much right now, if Charles does reach out and touches on Tony's mind, just below the surface thoughts, he'll be hit with a few intense and alternately cresting waves of thought. Of frustration, being passed off when and where it mattered, given what his name means back home. Who he is, the money he comes from. And, conversely, the need to be passed off, that the Iron Man suit never would have been finished if people didn't write him off and leave him alone. How being written off had never actually mattered to him until he realized that people on his team were doing it - Steve's words echo up, suddenly You know you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero - and then...
Nothing. All of that disappears, his thoughts almost seem to still for just a moment, only to be replaced with an ache that's actually physically painful, for Tony. A full body ache for just a glass of alcohol, a bottle of beer, a goddamn sip of wine. An all consuming mental need for it. Calculations and plans that always seem to hum in the back of his thoughts seeming to scramble, the numbers just out of reach, nothing making sense in that overwhelming need for a drink.
And in reality, outside of his mind, Tony actually makes a noise in the back of his throat, drags a hand over his face and says hoarsely, annoyance more than clear in his voice.]
I haven't been this sober in twenty three years. [Because even in Afghanistan, they'd kept him on rudimentary painkillers.
They needed him to be able to move after the surgeries, after all.]
spam
At the end of the day, what people said about Tony Stark was right. At the end of the day he'd been a man who lived in the lap of luxury for thirty nine years. He'd been spoiled, thrown his money around everywhere. He'd had girls hopping in and out of his bed, had never had to seriously work even once to make sure that he had a meal on the table or a bed to sleep in. He had thirty five luxury cars, seven vacation homes, four yachts, two actual homes on opposite sides of the United States.
He'd spent three months in a cave, sure. But he wasn't a solider, wasn't living in a hole and fighting for his life. He wasn't a survivor of an event like the Holocaust. He wasn't born to nothing and forced to fight his way up, he wasn't trained for nothing but killing, didn't have an experiment blow up in his face and give him a pretty stellar anger management issue. He was just a genius who'd had a wake-up call he never should have needed. He was a guy with a heart made of metal and money, dressing up and pretending, for a moment, that he isn't like every other billionaire playboy in the world. That he isn't the selfish dick pretending that he cares about the world.
Tony'd been serious about this, about wanting to understand. To experience something like this, even second-hand. To stop, for a moment, being that selfish prick who pretends like they get it, but in reality can never even hope to understand.]
Trust me, I get it. [He's still shaken, but at least now he can meet Charles' eyes. But there's still something raw in his expression, the flicker of residual unease, anger, and terror as his mind processes the memories for the umpteenth time since Charles had broadcast them. Finally, though, his lips quirk up in a tired, bitter half of a smirk.] Probably for the first time in my life, I get it.
[He's just kind of letting his head fall forward a little, forehead resting on the back of the hand clutching at the back of the chair, his other hand up and moving, gesturing from Charles to his own head in probably the vaguest read my mind gesture in the world.
Because damnit, Tony's tired. He's tired and emotional and still processing the memories, picking them over in excruciating detail, because that's just how his mind worked. It picked everything apart a hundred times over, memories every little detail and analyzed it thoroughly.
So instead of talking, because words are just too much right now, if Charles does reach out and touches on Tony's mind, just below the surface thoughts, he'll be hit with a few intense and alternately cresting waves of thought. Of frustration, being passed off when and where it mattered, given what his name means back home. Who he is, the money he comes from. And, conversely, the need to be passed off, that the Iron Man suit never would have been finished if people didn't write him off and leave him alone. How being written off had never actually mattered to him until he realized that people on his team were doing it - Steve's words echo up, suddenly You know you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero - and then...
Nothing. All of that disappears, his thoughts almost seem to still for just a moment, only to be replaced with an ache that's actually physically painful, for Tony. A full body ache for just a glass of alcohol, a bottle of beer, a goddamn sip of wine. An all consuming mental need for it. Calculations and plans that always seem to hum in the back of his thoughts seeming to scramble, the numbers just out of reach, nothing making sense in that overwhelming need for a drink.
And in reality, outside of his mind, Tony actually makes a noise in the back of his throat, drags a hand over his face and says hoarsely, annoyance more than clear in his voice.]
I haven't been this sober in twenty three years. [Because even in Afghanistan, they'd kept him on rudimentary painkillers.
They needed him to be able to move after the surgeries, after all.]