Black Celebration (for usedtoberussian)
Generally, Tony's default reaction to anything he doesn't know how to deal with is to hole up in the workshop and bury himself in some new project. It works pretty well for him. True, it doesn't actually alter the fact that he has no idea how to deal with it, but it's soothing to spent a while immersed in a problem he can take apart and consider
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The moment passes quickly and he dons an approximation of his usual smirk. "I'm all for a good cliché," he replies, tone light and easy as he watches her pour the vodka. "Especially if it gets me a drink."
It's an effort, putting the mask back on; and though he could use a drink, frankly right now he'd rather she just went away. He doesn't want to have to pretend to be okay. The mere thought of going to the trouble of acting his usual self is exhausting. His eyes linger on the welts around her wrist for a moment before he wrenches his gaze away and turns back to look out over the city again.
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Though her expression is neutral, and she seems entirely engrossed in filling their glasses, she sneaks small glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Slowly piecing together an impression of him. He's too tense, and the ordeal has clearly taken its toll on him. Possibly she should be slipping him sedatives rather than getting him drunk, because he sure as hell looks like he could use a good night's sleep.
It's the first time in ages that she's seen him this subdued. As Natalie, she'd caught glances of it from time to time, when he thought no one was looking and his armor slipped. But he'd been dying back then and they're both fine now, if a bit banged up. Still, the look on his face is enough to make icy guilt stab through her, sharp and relentless.
She sets the bottle down on the floor between them -- the glasses she can afford to lose if they go tumbling off the railing, the bottle she'd rather not -- and tugs her sleeves down firmly to cover her wrists as she straightens. She would've had to be blind not to notice him looking at them, though she doesn't quite understand why such insignificant wounds would bother him. These injuries are nothing. Doesn't he see that?
"Thomas Whitmere of the 'Green is Good' foundation," she offers, taking the glass closest to her and warming it in her fingers. "Apparently, he wanted the arc technology to set up a self-sustaining community out in the woods somewhere in California."
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"That asshole!" Tony responds immediately, glaring into his glass as though it's personally responsible for the situation, "I knew I recognized the voice. He was at some conference..." The guy had been...forgettable, in a vaguely slimy sort of way. Like Justin Hammer without the personality. And boy was that a sentence he never imagined he'd ever have cause to think. He assumes a vaguely offended expression; "I nearly got killed because that dick wanted to relive Woodstock? Seriously?"
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"Pretty much, yeah," she confirms and takes a slow sip of her vodka. She could just knock it back, but that'd be a waste of perfectly good vodka. "He hired some amazingly incompetent goons to do his bidding and didn't give them enough intel." She tosses a quick, almost apologetic glance at Tony. She doesn't know how much of this he wants to hear. "He'll rot in a SHIELD cell for the next five to ten years." Trying to steal any of the Iron Man technology is immediately classified as an act of terrorism.
Her eyes go back to the huge windows leading back into the penthouse. With the lights dimmed, she can just make out the curve of the sofa inside. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, cradling her glass in both hands and pressing the pad of her thumb against the rim. "I should've gotten you out sooner."
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He takes a quick gulp of the vodka, closing his eyes for a moment as it burns all the way down. "Good," he says flatly. That's all he has to say on the matter. He takes exception to people attempting to murder him; that sort of thing can really wreck your day. He's dealt with enough guilt for things that actually were his fault not to have any qualms about some would-be crook too inept to even do it properly to the wolves.
At her apology his eyebrows go up. He tilts his head, giving her a faintly puzzled look; his expression suggests that he's contemplating the best way to take her apart and figure out how she works. Of course the part of their little adventure in which Natasha actually got loose is a little fuzzy for him - reasonably he feels, given the circumstances - so he's not actually entirely clear on how that came about. But he's certainly not going to object. In the end he just shrugs and says; "Shit happens - no harm no foul. Look, I'm still in one piece and everything."
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"I didn't think they'd go for the chest piece," she tells him, her fingers tightening around the glass. The eye contact gets to much for her, and she turns around, leaning her elbows against the railing and looking out at the million lights of the city all spread out before them. "I thought at most they'd start with a punch or something. Or if they'd gone for the shocks straight up, they'd have to move the machine first--" Her jaw tightens and she looks down at her glass. "I thought I'd have plenty of time to slip the cuffs before they did any actual damage to you."
Each word burns bitterly through her throat, far worse than the vodka. She failed him, and admitting as much out loud is embarrassing. "I was wrong. And you paid the price."
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A little light begins to dawn when she admits she hadn't been expecting them to take the reactor. Oh. That makes sense. And it wouldn't have occurred to him. The truth is, he'd been half expecting it from the moment he woke up tied to the chair. But then that says more about him than anything else; of course that's the first place his mind goes. There's always the nauseatingly vivid sense memory - lying helpless as choking pain claws its way up his throat from the gaping emptiness in the center of his chest - lurking in the wings, ready to come to the forefront at the slightest provocation.
"For future reference," he says casually, leaning down to snag the bottle, "Once the reactor comes out, I've got at least a couple of hours." He tops off his own glass and gestures questioningly with the bottle in the direction of hers.
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"You don't have to thank me," she says with a shake of her head. "We're a team. Looking out for each other is what we're supposed to do."
Natasha does knock back the glass now, washing down the bitterness with the strong liquor. As she holds it out for him to fill, she meets his eyes steadily. "I'll keep that in mind for next time," she says lightly, giving him a tired sort of smile. Unlike Tony, she's not trying to keep up any front or pretend that she's less exhausted than she actually is. Of course, she doesn't let on how sickened she is by the idea of him having the arc reactor plucked from his chest again. "You should maybe think of adding some security features to that thing." She gestures vaguely at his chest. "Make it less easy to just pop out." It's a liability.
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"Believe me, I'd love to," he says, quirking an eyebrow at her. "I can't. I'd have to modify the housing for that. Not the reactor housing, the bit that's actually-" He taps his chest illustratively "-attached." And to switch that out would require actual surgery, going under the knife again, and...god, he can't. He just can't. The mere thought is enough to make his throat close up and put a tremor in his hands.
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Natasha's eyes flicker to Tony's chest as he taps it, and she honest to god winces at the idea of exchanging the housing. It sends an uneasy shiver down her spine. Surgery's never been her favorite thing in the world, and couple that with mechanics and it seems like a spectacularly bad idea.
On a whim that she'll never be able to explain, Natasha reaches out and catches Tony's hand, steadying it around the glass. "How bad off are you?" she asks, cutting straight to it. There's no pity in her voice, it's just an honest, flat question. "And don't lie to me."
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He blinks down at her hand, looking momentarily derailed and kind of lost. The automatic evasion dies on his lips. "It hurts like a bitch," he admits in a moment of uncharacteristic honesty. "But hey. Old news." Because of course it hurts. It always hurts. He's learned to live with it.
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Natasha wasn't really asking about the pain. Of course it hurts, that much is obvious. She can read the pain in the tight lines around his eyes and mouth, and the weariness that haunts his expression. But, pain passes. All it needs is time. Other areas might need some more work. She nods in reply to his answer though, her hand warm and steady around Tony's and the the chilled vodka. "You'll get through it." It's not a promise, as much as a statement of pure fact. "After Afghanistan, did you ever do a debrief?"
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"Kinda," he replies. The military had insisted on a debrief, but he...hadn't been especially cooperative. The bare bones of the story were there. But most of the details were either omitted or just replaced by half-truths and some outright lies. Of course the story Rhodey got was closer to the truth, but that was strictly off the record.
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Natasha has read through the official reports, both from Tony's debrief with the military and the one -- far later -- with Coulson. And she knows that neither one of them would've done much to settle him. "A good debrief lets you-- put things to rest." You go through what you did, examine what you could've done different, and then you put it away. If there isn't disciplinary action, you know you've done good. It's far more helpful than the shrink you're sometimes sent to for a set number of sessions after a mission has been deemed particularly upsetting. "SHIELD's not going to give you one for this." Not when they already have her side of the story.
She lets go of his hand, clinks her glass against his in a quiet toast before downing her drink in one go in a silent cue for him to follow. "So, I figured, you and me could do a debrief of sorts." She bends down to fetch the bottle, careful not to meet his eyes as she refills her own glass.
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He tosses the drink back in one smooth motion. "You were there," he says with a shrug. "You know what happened - probably better than I do." He doesn't see how going over it again is supposed to help. It's over, it happened, end of story. And okay, maybe it'd make him feel better to get some stuff off his chest. But- "There's gonna have to be more vodka first either way," he adds.
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"It's not about what happened. It's--" Natasha cuts herself off with a shake of her head. There's an edge of frustration to her expression. If he doesn't get it, she doesn't think there are words enough to explain it, and hell if she's going to frustrate herself further by trying. Instead, she fills his glass to the brim. "Thankfully, we're not in short supply of vodka." She keeps the bottle in her hand, patiently waiting for him to finish this one as well. Though she does intend on cutting him off before he gets too drunk to remember whatever good work they do tonight.
"It's not quite the same for us," she offers. "This is what I do, Tony. Interrogation is one of my strongest skills."
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