[Kübler-Ross | Stage Two | Anger]

[daretodo]

The kitchen table's been overturned and the splintered remnants of a chair are scattered across the floor, along with broken plates and glasses, silverware. In the living room, a bookshelf's collapsed in on itself, the end table responsible for its destruction still hanging through the slats of one of the shelves. One of the couches has been torn

Comments

[notawastedlife]

He was not a man that did a great deal in the way of overt emotional responses. His parents, Yinsen, Duo, all formed a study of varying ways of partitioning himself, bringing something else forth to attend to. The later ones were, if unusual, perhaps stable, for him. Earlier, though, drinking had been chief among them, becoming purposefully dissolute.

It was not lost on him that the woman who had been tangible evidence, a case study in the impact that could have on others, the one he'd said the A-word to first was the absent party.

And that Peter was going to have a hell of a time dealing with this.

Of course, his own tactics had not left him in any particularly strong place to assist others with grief, so he'd let his contribution be... other. He was showing up, nonetheless, wandering in, words on his lips pausing once he noted what Peter was doing.

He'd wait for the equation to play out.

[daretodo]

"Pepper sent you."

It's not a question. Maybe it should be. Maybe things have changed enough that Tony'd really come here of his own accord, but it's too late now, my voice coming out both flat and hoarse. I can barely bring myself to look at him, my gaze flicking in his direction for all of an instant to confirm I'm not imagining things -- every movement in the corner of my eye is Mary Jane -- before I return it to the wall in front of me. Whatever momentum I had, though, is lost to the distraction of his presence alone, and I take a step back from the wall, my grip on the marker no less tight for the interruption.

I don't tell him to leave. With him, probably more than anyone, it'd just be encouragement to stay; I know him well enough for that. And while I can't say I want him to stick around, at least he's unlikely to tell me he's sorry for my loss; that's not a word he's big on. For the very first time, I'm immensely grateful for that fact.

"I should put up a sign. No one knocks anymore."

[notawastedlife]

"Would you have heard it over the property damage?" Tony said, nudging the overturned table with a foot. Admittedly, it had the appearance of something done not immediately before his entrance, since Peter had been at the wall with the marker, then, but he wasn't going strictly for accuracy.

It reminded him a hotel room after a bender.

Which would have been an option, only he wasn't couldn't just drag Pete along to get wasted, unfortunately.

[daretodo]

In other circumstances, I might have felt some sense of embarrassment, but there's none of that, now. I don't have to explain myself to him or anyone else, and I definitely don't have to stand here in my own house and be judged for how I'm choosing to cope with an impossible situation. I press my free hand to my chest, and through my shirt, run my fingers over the raised scar tissue that's still there months after the fact; Tony's done worse

[notawastedlife]

There was a guy who'd survived over a decade of people trying to kill him, Tony thought, apropos of perhaps nothing except for how that was slightly unnerving, there.

"Stick to the tables," Tony agreed, squinting at Peter's expression briefly before his gaze slid past to the calculations on the wall. It seemed to be related to about the field you'd expect, in these circumstances.

Well, the one you'd expect if you belonged to a very specific set of people.

[daretodo]

"That's what I thought," I mutter darkly, though I'd be lying if I said it was anywhere near as satisfying, smashing furniture instead of some thug's skull. There's an itch lingering underneath my skin, that impulse to hit something, to destroy something ever-present, because it's just not enough, what I've already done. I watch Tony for a second longer, flexing the fingers of my free hand as I let it drop from my chest, then turn back to face the wall.

He's not the guy I want to fight, regardless of what I've learned of his counterpart in the last month, or what role I go on to play in the Civil War. If I'm going to cut loose, it'll be against someone who doesn't need a suit of armor to stand a chance, though the idea of taking on that kind of challenge is dangerous in its appeal. I nearly died the last time I took on Iron Man, and without my powers, the odds would still be in his favor. What's worrying is that I don't really care.

"You're being quiet."

[notawastedlife]

For all that Tony seemed to talk a lot, it was mostly that people noticed it when he did talk, because he paid no heed to whoever else was talking at the time, or because he did it with flair, when called upon by circumstance. Or, okay, because he talked to his computer, or his robots.

Fine, maybe he did talk a lot. But it didn't mean he didn't have his taciturn or laconic moments.

"Didn't figure you'd be in the mood for chat," he said. It wasn't exactly that he was cutting back to be understanding, more that due to that fact, he could, and not feel that he was obliged to be otherwise, not that it was a concern of his, things that he was obliged to do.

Which did raise the question of why he was here, but he had felt he should. So maybe he wasn't as lacking in concern as all that.

[daretodo]

"Then why are you here?" I ask, turning to face him again, hands fling out to my sides. He's right that I'm not in the mood for chat; it's hard to stay still, each moment a losing battle against the restless anger that's settled deep into my bones. There's nothing left in the house I'm ready to destroy.

[notawastedlife]

"In... case you were?" Tony said, wincing slightly because, well, that was terrible reasoning. He bent to aimlessly pick up a piece of the table, turning it over, mostly to have something to look at and do with his hands. "I'm not great at this consideration thing. Seemed like I should be."

[daretodo]

"You can always leave," I offer, brows arched. The phrasing's deliberate; I'm not telling him to leave, because that keeps getting me nowhere, but reminding him the option's there might see better success. I can't say that I'm counting on it, though. Striding towards him, I move to take the piece of table out of his hands.

"I'm not really interested in your consideration, anyway."

[notawastedlife]

"Good, it's terrible," Tony said, without missing a beat, absently relinquishing the piece of table. "I would leave, but you haven't finished your equation, there, and it's interesting."

This was, in fact, absolutely true.

It wasn't the entirety of the reason, or the only one, but it served as a good one to throw out there.

[daretodo]

I don't bother explaining what my calculations are for; there's not a doubt in my mind that he knows already, which is one of the better things about surrounding yourself with geniuses -- or, well, genius. Singular. This isn't home, and while the average IQ of this place is probably higher than it has any right to be, few people have actually put their intelligence to any practical use here.

Chucking the piece of the table back to the ground hard enough that it splinters some more, I say, "I lost my train of thought."

[notawastedlife]

"Well, then, let's get it back," Tony said, heedlessly stepping around the spot where Peter had just hurled and broken a chunk of wood, and casting about before coming up with a marker, tracing the equation to its current end, then rethinking and moving backwards, adding a second set of letters under an existing ones; not correcting, anything, but moving that section in a slightly different direction.

[daretodo]

I wait a beat before following after Tony, my interest in the added line outweighing my annoyance over him taking over. Snatching up my own marker, I settle beside him, leaning in to make my own additions.

"Where's an evil A.I. when you need one?" I mutter.

[notawastedlife]

Tucked away in the scrapyard, actually, as removed from anything as he could manage, but that wasn't entirely relevant. He wasn't going to bring it up.

Hell, Peter might try to turn her back on just to try to find out if she was wired to feel pain.

"Scrapyard needs security," he said, following this thought further along. Like the notation; not directly, but going from an earlier point along a different track. "Thinking about putting something together. It'd need testing against a credible threat, though."

[daretodo]

"Luckily you have a flying suit of armor that doubles as a WMD," I say slowly, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. There's a tacit suggestion underlying his words, but just what, exactly, I'm not sure. "Congratulations, you're the most credible threat this place has."