He starts shaking his head the second the world fault leaves Tony's lips, a steady back and forth, a constant stream of denial that doesn't waver for a second even as his fingers tighten precariously on an empty glass. Romania. Siberia. They're one thing, but the god damn dirt road hits so hard that a little chnk sounds from the glass, a hairline fracture where it's starting to give beneath his grip that spreads like spiderwebs around the crystal.
"Shut up," He mutters again, just before 1991 comes out. The crashing of a car full-speed into a tree, he can hear it - it's a perfect audio recreation in his mind, the screeching of brakes and the crumpling of metal, and his ears ring with tinnitus. Help my wife, please- Sargeant Barnes? Howard-
It's the whiskey.
"Shut up- !" He doesn't register throwing the glass, doesn't register standing or whirling or hurling it with any great force, but does plainly register the way that it slams into a shelf of other glasses, and the way they all shatter their way to the floor.
A silent beat.
And then he's back, back under rigid control, ducking his eyes and turning his head and taking a breath. Passing a hand over his mouth, because the onslaught of shame comes startlingly quick. Probably the second it left his hand. Shit. He's got a lot of messes to clean up, and he's not sure which one to address first. Executive dysfunction, a rigidness in his spine, a faltering gaze, until finally he can lift his eyes enough to level Tony with a head-on look and murmur a frigid, cracked, sincere, "I'm sorry."
Which- there's that word he swore five minutes ago he was never going to say. Broken glass, broken promises. Funny how he says it after he's already been given the pass.
no subject
"Shut up," He mutters again, just before 1991 comes out. The crashing of a car full-speed into a tree, he can hear it - it's a perfect audio recreation in his mind, the screeching of brakes and the crumpling of metal, and his ears ring with tinnitus. Help my wife, please- Sargeant Barnes? Howard-
It's the whiskey.
"Shut up- !" He doesn't register throwing the glass, doesn't register standing or whirling or hurling it with any great force, but does plainly register the way that it slams into a shelf of other glasses, and the way they all shatter their way to the floor.
A silent beat.
And then he's back, back under rigid control, ducking his eyes and turning his head and taking a breath. Passing a hand over his mouth, because the onslaught of shame comes startlingly quick. Probably the second it left his hand. Shit. He's got a lot of messes to clean up, and he's not sure which one to address first. Executive dysfunction, a rigidness in his spine, a faltering gaze, until finally he can lift his eyes enough to level Tony with a head-on look and murmur a frigid, cracked, sincere, "I'm sorry."
Which- there's that word he swore five minutes ago he was never going to say. Broken glass, broken promises. Funny how he says it after he's already been given the pass.