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."