Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing

[nonstopnarcissist]

WHO: Tony Stark
WHERE: Tube Room in the Bunker, Inn, Forge
WHEN: September 3rd onward
OPEN TO: Initially Bucky Barnes, then Everyone
WARNINGS: Descriptions of Dissolving, Canon typical Violence, Language, Blood, etc.

---

Tubular Trauma - [Closed to Bucky Barnes]

Oblivion isn't as comforting as Tony thought it might be. That drifting, aching sort of silence that seeps in like ice to strangle all sensation and thought? Normally didn't include quite this much pressure. Like the armor locked up dead around him, but with a single terrifying exception he's never had water between his skin and the circuitry. It makes drifting awake less of a vague meandering towards consciousness and more of a snapped, panicked shot of adrenaline to the base of his spine. Because this? This isn't Titan. It's not stale air stinking of ozone and ash it's a tube.

Full of fucking water. Whatever's just beyond is a bit beyond his capacity to grasp seeing as the first detail that sinks in isn't that he's in soaked scrubs, floating in a tube. It's the slow coil of red swirling in the water from his left side and- that? That's going to be a problem. The patch job didn't hold through whatever the ever loving fuck brought him here- why being fully submerged makes this easier, he doesn't know. Too confused to panic, he'll think- as soon as he gets out. Though trying to scrabble for a seam in the tube is A) useless and B) slow going with one hand, the other pressed tight against his wound, for all the good it does in keeping the exit wound from bleeding.

Protip: It doesn't.


Got an Inn

Adjustment after a shock is- well. It's a thing. A shock to his system, a shock to the senses, emotional fatigue, whatever. The finely tuned engine that is his brain keeps trying and failing to roll over, the dull click click click of failing spark plug echos in his teeth. Failure's one thing. It wasn't an option, and they'd failed and that- he'll. Cope. Somehow. Not much of an option. He'd given himself a moment, maybe ten to breathe and think and wonder and he'd- woken up here. In scrubs (his stylists would kill him, Pepper would kill him) and they're not there, he knows they aren't there, but he can't help but keep picking at his nails. Digging out bits of ash and soot that don't exist anywhere but in his memory along with the still palpable crumpling of an adolescent arachnid that-

Yeah, no. Not thinking about that.

Heels of his hands pressed to his eyes Tony tries to just. Breathe. Eat the damn lunch he'd come to get and figure out a step two. Or. Shit, at this point? He'd take a step one. Maybe another soak in the hotspring so his ribs and torso stop feeling quite so delicate; he's been over this whole thing for years Revisiting this particular sharp edged vulnerability? Not his idea of fun.


Rebuilding, Rebranding, Reforging

The best part about waking up here, Tony decides, is the built in ability to figure out what the 'best' option is for him, outlined in a shade of blue so damn familiar it aches a little. As long as he's stressed out of his mind- which is all day, every day, since he was fucking twelve- and without direction (which is every hour since the snap) the universe which screwed him over so spectacularly through circumstance and poor cosmic shuffling throws him a bone. A glowing line not entirely unlike a flight path that guides him from wherever his latest round of trying not to rattle apart while left alone with his own sharply spiraling thoughts that circle 'we're fucked we're fucked we're fucked' on a nigh infinite loop was (usually somewhere not too open, usually with his back pressed so hard to a wall it's hard to breathe but he needs to know he can see everything that's coming at him or not) to...a pretty well dead forge. It's antiquated like the rest of the village. Clean, empty, quaint.

Dead coals, unused tools, and just getting everything cleared out to the point of use would take a day, finding ore or iron would take gifts or mining but- he can start doing something. Here's the best place for him and it's true, he can feel that garrote of tension fit to strangle start to go loose at the idea of a project. It's direction. It's something productive, something he can lay his hands on and...tinker. Bandage around his ribs or no, Orders for bedrest or no (he has them, he's ignoring them, some shit doesn't change), Tony busies himself with getting the forge cleaned up and organized, rough charcoal sketches dusted on the wall as he plans the first of many projects that still...won't be enough. Not to keep him busy. Not to keep him sane. But for now? it's as good a place to start as any. First order of business: Stockpiling iron to work. Which...that'll take some doing, won't it?

Comments

reforging

[womanofvalue]

It's been some time since Peggy's seen the forge working and it fills her heart with nostalgia to see it going again. She's coming back from another self-imposed shift in the bunker, working on the systems to try and learn the code when she sees it going, wondering if she's going to find Thorfinn inside.

She doesn't knock as she enters, too weary for that, but what she finds is a different familiar face, one that has her perhaps even more surprised and pleased. Closing the door behind her, Peggy stands there with her arms crossed as she studies him carefully, noticing the gait. "Should I bother telling you what a bad idea it is for you to be doing any of this, or is there no use?"

[nonstopnarcissist]

"Exercise in futility-" Offhand and easy as he squints into the glowing maw of the forge, focused on the color, the radiating, almost unbearable heat before the voice settles in and clicks. The clip and lilt, the wry undertone, the understanding that he's not one just to sit but- he runs the odds she thinks he's Howard. Discards it almost immediately; something from his mother's side of the family rendered him a little wider in the shoulder, a little shorter in build.

Swallowing ash (god he'll never get the taste out of his mouth) he tugs the metal poke free and turns to meet her. If he pretends it's not a big deal, it won't be. Maybe. Probably. "You know us Starks. Hate to be idle."

[womanofvalue]

"That's not the first thing that comes to mind when I think about you Starks," Peggy says thoughtfully, making a face like she's debating just how insulting she plans to be in this particular moment. "Tony," she says, chiding just a little. "I know that you're more stubborn than determined, but you wouldn't deny me company?"

Perhaps if Starks can't be idle, then Carters can't let that happen. "I'm exhausted and I was hoping to get a bite to eat. Don't make me eat alone," she begs.

inn.

[scathefires]

The body language of trauma is something you pick up pretty quickly working as a masked vigilante, and Jason recognizes it better than even he realizes, consciously. All he knows when he lays eyes on Tony is that this new guy is practically screaming that things are Not OK, and Jason - well, he feels compelled to do something about it. Recent conversations have reminded him of what it felt like to help people when he was Robin, and - he misses that. Something he thought dead and buried the way his own body never was when he'd been killed.

So maybe it won't be wanted, but he decides to make an effort to help anyway. Try to help, at least. There's only so much he can do in this situation, and he knows that. But sometimes just knowing someone is there helps. So he takes a seat near Tony - not right next to him, Jason doesn't want to crowd his space, but the next chair over.

"You're new," he says, flatly, stating the obvious. "You get the whole welcome wagon deal already?"

[nonstopnarcissist]

It says something that he doesn't jump. Probably that he's too exhausted to be as tightly wound as he will be later? He's not sure, but it's stimuli, it's conversation and that's better than the current downward bullshit flailing of erratic thought. Tony drags a hand down his face and rolls his head to the side, chin propped in his palm. Maybe he needs to reevaluate the best part of this place:

A handful of exceptions aside? No one knows him. Zero expectations at play here. It's- something of a relief?

"Vaguely? It's not sticking, probably because I woke up with an extra hole in me. So a refresher, can't hurt." Some of it made sense, most of it seemed like bullshit but- multiple verified sources are better than none.

Inn | IW spoilers, bringing the pain

[fwips]

To say that there's a lot going on would definitely be an understatement.

Over 48 hours Peter's spent down in the newly-discovered bunker complex, swallowing back the existential crises that want to claw up his throat. (Yes, that's plural; there are multiple.) From the time he coughed his way out of the fountain, there's never been this much raw information available about the place, and it's a puzzle — It's always a puzzle — but he's good at that. Really good at it. And if his mind latches onto the task at hand with a furious focus that could only speak to shutting out something else, well, maybe it knows what it's doing.

(He's real. He knows he's real. It can't have all been for nothing.)

Someone — Probably multiple someones — have brought supplies down to the complex, enough to keep any of them going for days more yet, but when Peter wakes from his latest nap, grinding the sleep from bleary eyes with the heels of his hands and the bleak and featureless bunker wall all that greets him, the first thing that comes to mind isn't the swirl of equations and data that lulled him to sleep. It's May's voice, cutting to the fore: You need some sunshine and fresh air, kid.

So he fumbles for his backpack and he obeys.

By the time he reaches the inn, he's fully awake, empty stomach leaping to protest the moment he nudges open the front door and gets a whiff of the lunch. Perfect timing. Smiling to himself, he lopes to the stairs, thinking to drop his bag and wash his hands first, when a casual glance out into the dining room halts him in his tracks, one foot poised against the next step, fingers clamped white-knuckled over the railing.

"Mr. Stark?" he says, blinking, the name thin and wavering.

No. No no no no no. This can't— No.

choo choo here comes the pain train

[nonstopnarcissist]

Usually when his ghosts call out- it's nowhere near polite. Echoing tendrils of recriminations, of insults, of reminders of every possible way he's failed despite years of work to ensure the contrary, a long itemized list of names wrapped up in the unspoken implication that their injury or death is on his hands. Always. Occasionally it's less coherent; a quavering voice in a cave, a scraped raw scream over roaring flames, the panicked lilt of all failsafs failing- and a thready thing wrapped around a sob on a dusty planet, stuttered, panicked.

I don't feel so good-

Over and over, a near infinite loop and he hadn't said anything, had he? Shock's a bitch but it was his job to keep the kid safe. For the fifth or sixth time since he sat down Tony scrubs at his hands like that'll get rid of the phantom film of-

Ashes? Dust. The texture entirely unlike anything he'd ever felt, a body going from weighty and solid to nothing but flaked particulates whisping in the wind. Times when he hates his memory- that the voice, the texture, the sensation of that kid clinging until he wasn't rolling around in high definition, with perfect clarity. This is on him. From the first time he showed up at the kid's apartment to that dead planet- it's on him. More red in his ledger, more failures to the pile.

And it starts up again, that voice but- not quavering. That's not how it was on Titan. It's.


Confused? Not panicked. Slowly Tony uncurls from his hunched over posture, turning his head rather than his ribs because he's got a healing hole in them still- and...stares. Health. Whole. What the fuck? Too ratted around by everything, by the fallout, content in what he'd been assuming was a safe place to not scrape on any of the older masks? For a moment his misery is achingly apparent, grief black and bitter in his eyes, lips pressed thin against the multitude of options to say- something? Anything. "...Peter?"

[fwips]

All this time, Peter's done such a good job of holding it together. Like genuinely admirable, he thinks, and not because he wants credit. It's hard — Like really freaking hard to push on everyday when he, they, might all be stuck here for the rest of their lives because of him. When that wavering, terrified moment that swept him here is always lingering there in the back of his mind like a shadow.

He used to have nightmares about the warehouse with Toomes, pinned by concrete and twisted steel and the cold panic of suddenly feeling so terribly young. The nightmares he has are different now: A hum that begins in his fingertips and grows until he wakes in a cold sweat, scream strangled in his throat as he stares, wide-eyed, into the calmly shifting shadows of his room.

(No one has heard him, not once: Even asleep, somehow he knows that waking up the rest of the inn would only make people worry.)

He'd felt it coming. Long before any of the others, he'd felt that tingle, that blowing apart of himself. Only Mr. Barnes knows that. And, well, he guesses maybe Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark, who is supposed to be back home fixing all of this, who is not supposed to be here, who is staring at him right now from across the room.

Peter can't breathe.

He sits on the stairs hard and dips forward, head between his knees as he gulps in shuddering breaths. It's mortifying, doing this now, in front of this man, this man he's supposed to hold it together for, but he can't—

He's only sixteen years old and he can't breathe.

tubular, radical.

[freightcars]

Barnes and Peggy have fallen into a sort of established rhythm for dealing with this new bunker, and the realization that people show up in tubes within it. Every day, one or the other is dispatched to check - it's not something that's been set in stone yet, he figures someone will eventually make it a regular chore, but until the village gets organized he's quietly taken to making a round. Today, unfortunately for Tony, is Bucky's day.

He'd be lying if he said this whole goddamn place didn't make him uncomfortable; the first few times he'd wandered in and looked at those bodiless tubes full of liquid, he'd seen his own face reflecting back. He felt a phantom creeping chill drag up his spine, the first trappings of the cryogenic freezing processes after a wipe - or worse, the fading as they woke him up for his next mission. He'd been able to see his own reflection in the little face window then too, and it's...

Viscerally uncomfortable.

That's part of the reason why he does it, actually. It's out of empathy, the grating uncomfortable idea that someone might be trapped in one of these, wide awake and terrified, perpetually drowning, freezing, alone. He couldn't sleep at night until he decided to do something about it, and even just knowing Peggy's here when he isn't brings him some relief.

At first, he can't tell who it is this time. A swirling cloud of blood fogs the water before Tony's face, and Barnes is left searching through it to try and make sense of what he's seeing - a nosebleed, maybe? Maybe shorn fingernails scratching at the glass? He's been there, he's clawed until his fingertips cracked and bled. He wouldn't judge. The blood slides away like a lava lamp almost, and he rubs at the glass to clear the fog, to see-

"Jesus Christ-"

He acts impulsively, he knows that in hindsight. He should've sent a distress signal out to Liv, should've had a doctor on standby even if it's something as simple as a paper cut. Blood is blood, after all. He is, at least, trained in field medical but honestly, that thought doesn't even occur to him. He just sees Stark, feels the rush of flooding guilt that has never ceased since the god damn nineties, and he acts. Whirls his way to the nearest console, and thrusts Tony's tube into maintenance mode.

A mechanical beeping fills the room and the liquid drains steadily from Tony's pod, reintroducing gravity with suddenness. In a matter of thirty or forty seconds the door slides open, and Barnes is there to catch him should he fall forward out of the fresh opening.

totally, for sure

[nonstopnarcissist]

Blood in the water-

and the sharks will come.

There's a trickle of bubbles churning in the water, now, an unheard but oddly palpable giggle. twisting, frothing on this side of hysteria because of course this is how it goes. A bargain for a life that's not worth making, no matter how much of the future Strange might've seen, word broken in the face of whatever infinitesimal possibility they get it right- and he's going to drown in a tube with a hole in him. Two very special, sacred horrors he's locked away only to be revisited when exhaustion takes him so far around the bend he's almost painfully aware and he'd hated them both. Bleeding out? Not fun.

Drowning? He has the t-shirt, been on this ride and he'd hated. it.

Both at the same time? Penance, maybe, for not doing enough. For not trying hard enough, being smart enough, strong enough, fast enough- scrabbling for purchase and there's movement on the other side of the glass he can't parse, another round of laughter- his whole life for the world to see and now he's going to drown in a fucking tube and be a perfectly preserved specimen of an asshole failure to some random jackass-

Air's a blessing and he scrambles for it, strains, gasps and sputters and coughs and god he hasn't missed this. It's easier without the weight of a magnet in his chest but it'll always burn. Scraped up like shads of asbestos and ground glass, the support the water gave him? Gone, and his legs go out from under Tony with a jarring thud as he crumples against the side of the tube. "Fuck-"

The door opens and he falls out, graceless as anything, hands pressed tight to the wound in his side as he braces for an impact that comes too soon to be the floor, too warm to be anything but another person. Scraping together the bitter, furious shards of will he's got left Tony paints on a defiant face. Thanos couldn't make him beg. This fuckwit didn't have a chance in hell. It holds long enough for him to tip his head back and-

Fucking.

"You?!" Oh fuck everything.

[freightcars]

Tony collapses against him like Barnes expected he might; the sudden transition from wherever they were to wherever they are would be enough to cause anyone to falter, let alone the abrupt change from zero gravity to the pull of the earth. His shirt and his jeans are soaked through immediately by Tony's sopping scrubs and skin and hair, it stains his front and his side, plasters to his body in a way that sets his teeth.

Bigger issues at hand, though.

A metal arm goes around Tony quickly, a tight embrace around his upper back just beneath his armpits. Whatever it takes to keep him upright. He's not as strong as he's supposed to be, the serum left his body months ago, it isn't as easy as supporting a child but he's in enough shape, at least, that it isn't insurmountable. Just effort, the grunting kind that might give away the fact that he's lacking if Tony's in the presence of mind to catch it. He may not be, Barnes wouldn't be surprised, it's all a lot to take in all at once.

He doesn't miss the way Tony holds his side, the way he lists, the way he leans.

Blood in the water.

He's Mission Mode now, the ire flows over him like the water, goes unacknowledged and unretaliated for the time being. Instead, he's pressing on to, "Can you walk? How bad is it?"

Because if it's bad enough, Bucky can send a distress signal to Liv and literally heave him up bridal style, carry him out if he's got to. He prepares mentally for that eventuality before he even gets an answer.

Inn Kitchen

[thegreatexperiment]

Sam's vodka still looked like something out of a Rube Goldberg drawing. There were pipes and tubes and glass jars and jugs. Everything was rigged up by string over burners and counter tops. The whole thing had to be disassembled and reassembled every time she used it, or no one would be able to use half of the kitchen. As a whole, Sam tried not to be that person. A dick. Admittedly, it was a habit that came to her naturally in most arenas of her life. But she had surprisingly excellent kitchen etiquette.

Especially for someone who couldn't eat.

She was working on her second batch of the day, her eyes following the clear, shining bubbles as they traveled along her patchwork distillery. To be perfectly honest, her heart wasn't entirely in it today. Or, at least, her mind wasn't.

The tubes--the ones underground--were obviously weighing heavily on everyone's minds, of course. But on top if it all, Sam couldn't get the specimen library out of her mind. It felt so...Ordo Dracul. Not for the first time, she wondered if the Overlords were somehow connected to the Predators. The implications of which were, of course, staggering.

"Fuck," she sighed, tapping on one of her beakers.

[nonstopnarcissist]

Having toured (and developed some tech for) a handful of distilleries in his time, the formation thereof was vaguely familiar, as was the smell. Wallowing in guilt of course the first thought is- I need a fucking drink. But drinks? Not to be had. Why the the fuck have a westworld bullshit old timey settlement and not have actual liquor? He feels cheated, in what small part of him isn't locked tight in existential dread can feel anything else. So the aroma, the set up? Familiar enough to have him wandering.

It's- not pretty, but it doesn't have to be. It just needs to function. Of course Tony probably doesn't look like someone anyone should be giving booze, bruises under his eyes, skin pale from bloodloss, a little wavery on his feet from the aforementioned blood loss, but the first crackle of genuine humor gives some spark of life to his eyes. "Huh. This your rig?"

He's seen- worse, actually. He's made worse to prove a point to Rhodey back in college. "Not half bad."

inn ; common room

[ex_enlisted288]

[ It's almost like the universe is laughing at him. Or the two of them, collectively.

Being in the bunker has been uncomfortable for Steve, bringing up memories that he'd rather not deal with at the moment. It's not exactly the same as hiding from them, but he has ruthlessly compartmentalized a lot of his feels and opinions on the subject of top secret bunkers containing sleeping chambers that are too close to Bucky's cryostatus tube. Too close to SHIELD's darker aspects. He's just not comfortable down there, so for now he'll let the others explore, and return when the urge to smash everything has lessened. (Because that's not how a guy gathers proper intel about the people holding them hostage.)

And he's had other things on his mind anyway, including making actual plans for the future.

So it's a trip to the Inn for some kind of meal, maybe chatting up the inkeep or her husband. Definitely keeping an eye out for the residents from his world. His people, the ones he feels personally responsible for despite a purposeful lack of leading anything on his part. Because he's not Captain America anymore. And there's not really a team to lead. That lack of ambition or responsibility for anyone but himself is mostly what's on his mind the moment he steps into the common room. And then it's the last thing on his mind, the moment Steve notices one of the newcomers. A very particular newcomer. The idea of turning around and leaving is almost overwhelming. Just pretend he doesn't see Tony, go find somewhere else to be.

But Steve doesn't run. Even when he really, really should. And that thought drags him across the room to Tony's table, his expression faintly annoyed but mostly trying to seem neutral. ]

Stark.

[nonstopnarcissist]

Fuck me. Really?

[ There's no heat to it. There's not even all that much vitriol- if anything Tony's exhausted. Bloodloss, grief, and defeat tends to do that to a person. Of every possible person from their world to be dragged here he'd thought he'd handled the worst of it pretty well, being dumped into Barnes' arms; but this? This is just ridiculous. Elbows propped on the table, face in his hands- for a long moment he considers just. Ignoring Rogers until he goes away.

But he wouldn't, would he? Not until he said his piece or what the fuck ever.

Nevermind that he doesn't have the mental energy for this, or that the usual coal of rage is too distant to grasp. Nevermind that he doesn't even know which version of Rogers he'll be looking at, but the tone was fairly unmistakable. Just before, During, or maybe even after The Accords Bullshit. He should've asked Barnes if Rogers was here. Should've braced himself for this moment. Dragging together something like his usual PR masks is difficult, but not impossible. He lets his hands fall and looks up at Rogers, always dealing with how he has to look up at him, and, well. He's faced worse things.

The cuts on his face have mostly healed, but his skin is sallow, his eyes darkened, his shoulders slumped forward until he gets his spine with the program and settles upright in a posture that's less hunched in and wounded, more bored. ]

What do you want, Rogers?

Reforging

[pretendtoneedme]

Clint's been told what happened in the world after he was pulled- here. Wherever "here" is. He knows that, somehow, he's still back home taking care of his family. He knows he took a deal to return home and stay with them. He doesn't remember any of it, since the last thing that happened to him was falling asleep on the Quin after Cap busted them out of the Raft, but he's been told it happened.

It makes no difference. Clint has been in the village for so long that sometimes he forgets how long it's been - he knows this isn't his life, that he hasn't been here a fraction of how long he's been alive, but it's just been so. damn. much. time. He hasn't seen his son learn to talk, hasn't been to soccer games, hasn't touched his wife, hasn't braided his daughter's hair, hasn't done anything in close to two years. He's wired. He's angry. He's frustrated with this whole fucking mess, and now hearing about Thanos and what happened with all of that shit, from both Nat and the kid-

-Well, the anger had been dying, unable to last against the plodding monotony of life in the village. Wake up, work hard, scrounge for what you could, sleep again. He knows Tony had only been doing what he thought was right, could admit that neither Steve nor Tony hadn't approached everything from the best angle, knew they were being set up and played against each other, and he'd really thought all of that was done and gone. But then Peter had turned up and everything had broken wide open again, first learning that Tony had brought a sixteen-year-old to a goddamn superhero fight and then learning about the chaos and horror that had engulfed their world while he wasn't there to do a damn thing to stop it. The anger came rushing back and had been under his skin simmering for two months, waiting for a target.

So when Steve finds him and tells him about the new arrival, Clint makes sure to hunt him down. There's not too many places it'd be logical to find Tony, and the forge is the second place he looks - and when he sees the billionaire there, he doesn't hesitate. Instead he marches straight in and with no words and no warning, decks him with a powerful left hook.

"Asshole."

[nonstopnarcissist]

He really needs to take the time and figure out who all else is actually in this backwards ass island, so he wouldn't keep getting suckerpunched (figuratively and literally) by people from back home. Hunched over the anvil as he is, squinting down at the latest sketch for the gravity powered fan? He doesn't hear Clint coming. The forge is roaring and waiting for the few projects he's got the materials ready for, his mind's flitting from point to point, tacked up pages on the wall outlining all the work he's gathered to keep himself busy while he's here.

Keep himself sane.

So there's not much warning, no chance to brace for impact and, well. Archer's with the kind of pull Barton has? Kind of swing hard. Tony's head cracks back and he stumbles into the table behind him, hissing as he curls inward. One hand pressed to his face, the other? braced against his ribs. Fucking. "Barton."

Of everyone around that he can think of- this is...probably the one hit he'll take with grace. Does, in fact, massage his aching jaw without so much as a glower. "...You done?"

[copingskills]

[After their quick message back and forth, Elena shows up, as promised, a couple of hours later. It had taken some convincing, but she'd assured Rose that she'd be fine, and as much as she appreciated the concern, she could only handle so much hovering.

She really needed some normal or all she'd think about was dying, the lake, those tubes.

After failing to find a wheelbarrow and instead grabbing a large backpack from the supplies at the inn, Elena collects the requested firewood, as well as an extra journal and a pen to take notes before she heads over to the Forge. And seeing as her only outfit outside of her scrubs (which she wears as little as possible) is a pair of crimson leather pants and a red blouse, that's what she shows up wearing.]

Hello?

[She pokes her head in first, having not particularly come here before except when she first arrived.]

[nonstopnarcissist]

Over here. [ Tony waves from where he's stoking the flames, stirring them with a critical eye and a long metal poker. No gloves, no apron- he'll get that shit later, right now he needs to know how hot this rig gets and what he can do to crank it up. The wall's covered in rough charcoal sketches and scrawls, the longest being a list of projects. He needs a better system, honestly, but in lieu of a holographic projection system this will just have to do for the moment.

Or at least until he gets a drafting table set up somewhere. ]

Miss Elena. [ He vaguely remembers how this shit goes. Vaguely. He wipes his hands off on a rag, turning with the closest approximation to a smile that he can manage. It's not entirely earnest- but polite enough. Tired. Exhaustion weighs on him like a fucking cloak. ]

Inn

[theluckygirl]

The unfortunate thing about living in the village, north or south, is the mundane, daily grind and even despite everything happening, Claire can only do so much. People are more careful there than any place she's ever been so keeping busy as a nurse is, more or less, impossible. So, she keeps her eyes open and tries to make another day pass as quickly as possible.

After popping into the hospital to return the bag of supplies she thought she would need a couple days before, Claire headed over to the inn to while away some time.

Now, she had spotted the familiar name when it came up as a distress call on her wrist device a few days before, but wow, there he was, in the flesh, sitting there looking... really rough. But she doesn't stop to say hi, just yet, rather disappears into the kitchen. In fact, her presence likely isn't picked up on until something is set down in front of him.

"You don't strike me as a cream and sugar guy, but I think I did read it somewhere that you preferred coffee over tea." she says by way of greeting, offering a smile.

[nonstopnarcissist]

For the most part, other than people that know him from back home (the list keeps getting longer and he wishes it'd fucking quit) no one's really stepped up to bother him just yet. Thank fuck. He doesn't have much energy for being anything other than a sore, semi-patched up pile of depressed nerves and overworked synapses. Muddling his way back through this headspace isn't easy in the first place, let alone when he's nowhere near home or his usual support network, or his stimulant of choice.

So having it placed in front of him so suddenly? Has his attention.

Tony's hands drop to the mug as his eyes swing up, confusion flickering across his face- most people that know of him know him here, so being known of but not remembering who this is? Sort of rattles against raw nerves. But. Coffee. "I'll take bitter bean juice over sad leaf water any day."

It's wry and rote, an expected quip because he's just full of them, always, and he manages to scrape together a little of the ole Stark Charm by way of a smile before taking a slow sip. After the everything that'd been his past few days? His gratitude is an audible, somewhat (thoroughly, no somewhat about it) obscene groan that twists out of him around a mouthful of black, bitter perfection. "You, you are my new favorite person."

reforging but 9/5

[oorah]

Another building he'd assumed empty is obviously occupied as he takes Aretha, the lazy but dutiful black-and-tan bloodhound, for her evening walk. He knows he should just keep walking, but offering up his help is a harder habit to break than it ever should be. He was already annoyingly community-oriented before finding himself transported to a silent village that would eventually elect him as Mayor, but now he's an entirely lost cause. Here goes nothing, Castle.

Wading through the detritus Tony has already cleared from inside, he makes his way in through the back without making a single sound. He isn't trying to sneak up on him, but it's another hard-broken habit as he feels along the door hinges to make sure they're well-lubricated before slipping inside. The other man may or may not recognize him from all the news coverage, especially with long hair, an unkempt beard and a bright teal hoodie drawn up over his face, but he did make two pretty impressive jaunts through the media back home.

The dogs clicking nails are the only noise that heralds the other man's arrival, and after Frank gets the chance to look around he lets out a low whistle in approval. It's encouraging when newbies take on tasks such as these, at least for them. It'll take Frank a few minutes to recognize Tony on his side of things, but either way if he wants to help the village then Frank already knows he'll help him in turn. He already hates himself for it, thanks for asking. "Lookin' good in here."

[nonstopnarcissist]

With time to heal (thank you magic springs) settle (eh) and shove past the whole maybe coping emotionally with what he'd come away from alive for some reason and throw himself into a truly absurdly long project list he's got posted on the far wall instead? Tony's doing better. He's got direction, he's got a very real, tangible set of things that need to be done for either individual comfort, his own curiosity, or the good of the settlement.

And he'll get liquor out of a few of those deals, how about that?

He's past sketching, well on the way of delicately hammering out a swirling, floral design over a dished curve sheet, the bones of Peggy's Teapot strewn about around him. The forge offers the most light, banked as it is, the roar cut down to a dull murmur interrupted only by the steady tink tink tink of hammer and chisel as he chases another petal into being. It's got a steady enough rhythm to it that Tony's humming under his breath mindlessly, unaware of any potential company.

He really needs to rig a bell or something over the door. Pulling his hammer away to wipe his eyes he starts at the sudden company, spine going tight, jaw locking as the bulk and shape of the guy registers but- hoodlum back home probably isn't the same kind of problem here. Maybe. "I haven't gotten half of what I need built yet. Give me a month. What brings you to IronMan's Iron Works?"

A beat.

"Nah that doesn't sound right. Stark Smithy? Alloys R Us? I'll think of something."

inn - kitchen

[morphogenia]

Kamala is here to cook for Frank, herself, and Peter who is undoubtedly still checking out the bunker. She can't exactly let him starve down there. Besides, she's got her own sleuthing to do. If she waits long enough, she won't have to do this. Someone will make a meal for everyone. Cooking reminds her of her mother and makes it seem like she'll come around the corner any second to correct her technique. She really misses her mom regardless of the fact she may not really be her mom. Weird, but okay.

She's slicing up potatoes when Tony stumbles in. Yikes he's clearly having a hard time. Kamala would want to help him out even if he didn't kind of resemble that superhero she totally loves a little....... Okay a lot. "Rough night?" She uses the knife to point to the old-fashioned thing that passes for a coffee maker around these parts. "Because coffee usually fixes my problems. Do you want some?"

[nonstopnarcissist]

Adjusting to the situation is taking longer than it should; whether that's the injury, the shock, or the fact that he doesn't have power in his house and stable access to coffee? Tony can't guess. But he shuffles his bleary way to the place he figures might have it, scrubs semi-reumpled, soot still under his nails, eyes bleary. He props his hip against the counter as he squints around the room trying to find-

Oh, thank fuck, direction and an offer.

"Yzplz." It's. Mostly a word. People expecting him coherent or at all sensible at this hour or any hour before coffee is expecting far, far too much of him. Satisfied that coffee's either on the way or being made he lets himself sag a little, reaching up to scrub at his face. "Rough...everything."