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 rationally and fix. It'd be nice if the rest of the world could make that much sense.
On this particular occasion though, it hasn't helped. After an hour of restlessly wandering from workbench to desk and back again, unable to settle to anything for more than a couple of minutes at a time, eventually he conceded defeat. He wasn't thinking clearly enough for design work, and he'd lose fingers if he tried to do anything involving power tools in his current state.
In the end he just wandered aimlessly out onto the penthouse balcony. Midnight finds him still out there, barefoot and dressed in the faded sweats he'd changed into after the SHIELD medics released him from their clutches, elbows resting on the railing and eyes gazing unseeing out over the glittering lights of the city. He knows he should be feeling something after...what happened. He's not sure what, but something. Instead he just feels apathetic. Strange and blank and empty. Beyond the immediate, purely physical sensations - the awkward tug of healing cuts beneath the bandages around his wrists, the everpresent sharp-edged ache in the center of his chest - he can't seem to summon any real reaction at all. It's weird.
The night air is cool, distant snatches of conversation carried up on the faint breeze blowing in off the bay. Endless lines of car headlights inch along far below. Up here, the tower is wreathed in silence.
On this particular occasion though, it hasn't helped. After an hour of restlessly wandering from workbench to desk and back again, unable to settle to anything for more than a couple of minutes at a time, eventually he conceded defeat. He wasn't thinking clearly enough for design work, and he'd lose fingers if he tried to do anything involving power tools in his current state.
In the end he just wandered aimlessly out onto the penthouse balcony. Midnight finds him still out there, barefoot and dressed in the faded sweats he'd changed into after the SHIELD medics released him from their clutches, elbows resting on the railing and eyes gazing unseeing out over the glittering lights of the city. He knows he should be feeling something after...what happened. He's not sure what, but something. Instead he just feels apathetic. Strange and blank and empty. Beyond the immediate, purely physical sensations - the awkward tug of healing cuts beneath the bandages around his wrists, the everpresent sharp-edged ache in the center of his chest - he can't seem to summon any real reaction at all. It's weird.
The night air is cool, distant snatches of conversation carried up on the faint breeze blowing in off the bay. Endless lines of car headlights inch along far below. Up here, the tower is wreathed in silence.