There isn't enough scotch in the world to make Tony feel better. Not that it will stop him from trying. He stares blurrily into the glass, feeling—again—completely alone.
<Boss—>
Tony shuts FRIDAY off before she can continue. It's the third time she's tried to interrupt. It's probably Bruce still trying to reach him.
<Mr. Stark—>
Off. Maybe it isn't Bruce. Maybe the Chitauri attacked again. Maybe the world outside is a burning hell scape of destruction. He doesn't care. He doesn't. Let the world rot; he's not leaving this room.
<B—> FRIDAY doesn't even manage a full syllable before Tony cuts her off this time. He could shut her down, but he's taking a sadistic sort of pleasure in manually stopping the interruption—like it reinforces his own sour mood.
He killed you.
There are a lot of ways of thinking about it, but it comes back to that simple fact. Your body is still around, but your soul... he snuffed it out. Inadvertently, but that doesn't matter. He had you and now he doesn't and it's all his fault.
<Boss.> FRIDAY doesn't respond to the kill command this time. She's overriding Tony's protocols. You probably put that little feature into FRIDAY while he wasn't looking. It would be something you'd do: make his AIs more uppity. <There is a disturbance in the medical suite.>
Tony snuffs out the hope in his chest before it can kindle. He downs the rest of his glass in one gulp. "Thrill me." The feed pops up in front of him, showing an empty room. Your empty room. Tony's heart skips a beat.
"Who moved her?"
<She appears to have left under her own power.> FRIDAY replays an earlier clip. You stir, muscles moving at odd intervals, then you roll out of the bed and tumble to the floor. It takes a moment, but you move again, jerking like a marionette with only half its strings attached. You pull yourself across the floor to the door.
You moved. Jesus Christ, you moved. He didn't kill you. You're in there. Tony shoots out of his chair. "Where'd she go, FRIDAY?"
<I believe that she has taken the elevator to the shared living area.>
Tony runs. He has to get to you, the sooner the better. You shouldn't be moving, not in your condition. You've been in a coma for years. You could hurt yourself. That was why he had included Bruce, so you could get medical attention the second you woke up. He hadn't counted on you wandering off on your own. There is a goddamn call button right next to your bed. Why didn't you use it? He takes the stairs two at a time, unable to stand still for the minute the elevator would take to retrieve him.
He bursts into the living suite, breathing hard, and searches for you, eyes roaming over the room. You lean against the large pane window, crumpled like a forgotten doll. Tony swears and rushes to your side.
"Hey"—he pulls you into his arms, still sitting on the floor, and pats your cheek—"hey, come on."
You stir, your eyelids squeezing, then peeking open. You mouth opens and closes a few times. You swallow. "Tony..."
"Hey, gotta get you back to the lab." He puts his arms under you to pick you up, but you struggle against him.
"No, no, Tony, no—" Your protests are too weak to stop him, but the earnest desperation in your voice is strong enough. "I have to see it." Your eyes are wide and pleading.
"See what?"
You turn back to the window, pressing an unsteady hand against the glass. "Please, Tony. Please. I have to."
Outside, the approaching dawn paints the sky pink and purple. You watch the horizon line with rapt attention. Tony watches you with the same amount of care. Your every breath is measured. Too even, too deliberate, as if you have to concentrate on the movement. He lets you rest on the floor, but still holds you to his chest, unable to bear letting go of the contact. For an agonizing fifteen minutes, Tony waits with you, counting each breath you take. As the sun breaks over the line of trees, flooding the room with orange light, you stop breathing altogether. Tony looks to your face in alarm and sees a single tear escape down your cheek.
#
Existing is... difficult. Every sensation over ||beat || whelms your sensitized mind. You're flooded with input, all at once, a jumbled mess ||beat breathe in || of extraneous information. Your senses ||beat || go to war, demanding equal attention from a mind incapable of looking at more than one thing at a time. You can't ||beat breathe out || stop the onslaught.
Tony is talking. To you or to ||beat || Bruce. It's hard to keep track. You can't focus on any one thing for long.
He touches your hand and all your ||beat breathe in || attention floods there. A million touch receptors cry out at he feel of his skin against yours, demanding ||beat || to be heard. Warmth and pressure, slight roughness. And then there's ||beat breathe out || his smell. Soap and cologne and grease and—
"Cheshire?" The timbre of||beat || Tony's voice rumbles through your ears, but you can't think past the feeling of the vibrations passing into you, as if ||beat breathe in || they connect his body to yours through the invisible wall of air. You ||beat || watch his face, concentrate on the way his lips form the words he's saying. Phonetics string together, then separate to ||beat breathe out || form words, then reconnect to make sentences. Sentences ||beat || are parsed into meaning. The process is agonizing, your mind ticking away to come ||beat breathe in || to some conclusion of what he wants. "Talk to me. What's going on? What are you feeling?"
What do you feel? You feel everything. ||beat || You sort through your brain, looking for the path to your voice, like shifting through a warehouse ||beat breathe out || of folders, all without labels. You have to try a few times before you find ||beat || the right switch. "...Confusing."
"Okay. Okay—confusing we can work ||beat breathe in || with. That's just the mapping. That'll be easier as you get used to it."
So ||beat || frustrating. This is your body, damn it, but you're fumbling around inside it like it's some sort of organic ||beat breathe out || suit and you still have to learn the controls. What moves your arms and legs? What is the meaning in the minute signals ||beat || coming from your sensory cortex? You made your way into the living ||beat breathe in || room out of sheer desperation. Now that you're trying to act with any deliberation, ||beat || it's a mess.
#
You try to touch your toes, an inexplicably difficult task. You watch the tips of your fingers as they close the space between them and your feet. You can't judge the distance correctly, like you're mentally measuring with an invisible ruler. This... shouldn't be this hard. You move each muscle individually—back, hips, hamstring—contract, relax, each at the right time or the movement doesn't work as expected. You tense each experimentally, testing the connection and establishing the routine so you can shortcut it later.
You move a muscle a little too far and the ground rushes up to meet you. Your reflexes scream at you to catch yourself, throw your hands out, but that connection isn't made yet, so you fall on your face, internally swearing, but outwardly completely calm. You can't even fuck up properly. You want to scream and curse and throw a tantrum but you fucking can't because you don't know how.
"It's okay," the physical therapist says as she picks you up. "You'll get there eventually. It's going to take time."
How could she possibly know how long it will take? You want to say it, but that would require remembering how to use the speech center of your brain and you are just too fucking tired for that.
"How about you take it easy? We're almost done anyway. We'll pick it up next time." The therapist says it with a smile that makes you want to scream. You can't actually 'take it easy'. Not ever. Everything takes effort. Sitting still, remembering to breathe, keeping your balance. Are you hungry? Are you tired? Are you too cold? Too warm? Existing takes effort.
You return to your suite, fuming and frustrated. A million processes compete for your attention. Your suite is massive—too much to look at all at once. Art and books and curtains and carpet and furniture and knick-knacks and—and—stuff. Why is there so much stuff?
You lay flat on the floor, letting gravity take over just about everything you can. You focus on breathing and close your eyes, savoring the break from the assault of color and shape. Sensations still bombard you, but at least you've minimized the types of control you're running.
This should be easier. You've created subroutines for things that you know can be compartmentalized—your heartbeat, your digestion, your breathing. But you keep finding new things to run. There are infinite bodily processes that you need and they all require some sort of input from you. You're micromanaging your own body and it's a fucking disaster.
You carefully partition the resources of your mind. 56% on bodily processes that should be automatic: breathing, heartbeat, swallowing, balance. You've allocated subroutines for these, but until they become fully automated, they still tingle at the edge, sapping your strength and concentration. 33% on your own mental processes, the millions of thoughts that swirl in the suddenly limited space of your brain. Synapses snap back into place as memories solidify. New memories form as you push them through the hippocampus into long-term storage. The last 11% is reserved for ignoring the ever-present chatter of the electronics that surround you in the tower. They whisper at the edges of your mind, waiting to speak if only you would reach out to them. You won't. You absolutely will not. You are holding onto your bodily control with the edges of your fingernails as it is.
Where is Tony, anyway? You haven't seen him since you left your room in the medical suite. You still haven't been able to thank him properly. After the disaster that was your first attempt at control, you'd fallen into something close to catatonic. Vacant, nonverbal, sporadic motion as you experimented with firing the different pathways in your brain. So, yeah, you hadn't been able to form the words. You plan on rectifying that as soon as you get the chance. As soon as you see him again.
Maybe he doesn't want to see you. That would be fair. He did what he said he would. He doesn't owe you anything else. You realize that there should be a feeling connected to that thought, but there is only emptiness. You should feel sad, maybe? That seems right. Which neurotransmitters are you supposed to release for that one?
#
Tony retreats to his lab. There, at least, there is something he can do. And he needs to do something—something to help, something to make things better for you. He needs to tinker or fidget or fix or something. Anything.
He runs through his specs, his calculations, everything. You're not supposed to be struggling. This was supposed to be a breeze, a cakewalk. The hard part is supposed to be over. If it isn't going well, then there must be something that he can do. Things can always be improved. There must be something he can fix.
But he can't watch you struggle. He can't... because you're in there. Trapped. It's worse than it was before, when you could make yourself known. You can't smile at him or tease him. Hell, half the time he isn't sure you can hear him. He wants to be there and he's going to be there when you figure out the best way to make contact with the outside. He is not going to leave you trapped alone in your mind. Which is why he needs to figure out how to help. Maybe, if he fixes it... you won't want to leave.
Being with you is hard, but the seclusion of the lab is worse. Tony is so used to you being in sync with him, stepping in his space, finishing his sentences. Since you're back in your body, you can't do that anymore. You aren't lurking in the circuitry waiting for him.
"Tony."
He turns to find you standing in the lab entrance, your hand pressed against the doorframe for balance.
"Hey." He can't think of anything past that to say.
You come inside, watching your feet intently as you place one in front of the other, keeping your hands on any available surface to steady your pace. You breathe in strange, half-regular intervals, like you forget to do so for a while, then start again. When you reach him, you stop. You look at him. You smile. You speak. "I haven't seen you."
Shit. Tony looks away. "Yeah, well, busy." He looks back, puts on his best smile even though it hurts. "And, hey, you've been doing great."
"Why haven't you come to see me?"
The persistence is painful. Your single-minded attention forcing him to actually answer your question. "I just... I haven't."
Your eyes rove over his face, your forehead scrunching together like Tony is the New York Times crossword. "I'm not good at this anymore. I can't read things. I don't know what you're thinking. I need you to tell me if something is wrong."
If something is wrong... Other than you getting better and eventually leaving and Tony having to learn how to go about his life like that doesn't rip his heart out... sure, nothing's wrong. "It's fine."
Individual muscles in your face tense and relax as if trying to form an expression, but unsure of how to do it. Eventually you settle back to passive. Tony turns to go back to his work, unable to bear looking at you. You stop him with your hands on either side of his face. Tony roots in place like you electrified him, staring up at you from where he's still sitting in his rolling chair.
"I'm only going to do this once, so just... bear with it, okay?" You kneel between his knees—okay, yeah, no, that's not what's happening, calm down, Tony—and stroke your thumb over his cheek. There's something just so fucking earnest about the way you look at him. You start to speak, seem to think better of it, smile, then try again. "You gave me my life back. I can't repay you. Thank you, Tony Stark. Thank you so much."
Oh god, his heart hurts. He can't deal with sincerity, he's not made for that. Snarky comments, sarcasm, he can do those. But you looking up at him with naked gratitude, that's too much. He can't... nope... too much, too close.
You're going to leave him, damn it. You're going to get better and you're going to walk away. Like Pepper did. Like everyone does. Because he isn't good enough or strong enough or whatever. But Tony doesn't want you to go. He can't stand the thought of you leaving. Not after all the sleepless nights and working and hoping and messing up and trying again.
You... you... maybe you...
He kisses you because he isn't sure what else to do. You'd said you can't read signs, you can't figure him out. What else can he do then, but show you what he wants?
#
Tony is kissing you. Tony is kissing you.
Your brain can't process anything beyond that. All the careful subroutines you've set up shut down, crashing under the onslaught of information. Smell and pressure and taste and want and want and want. Yours brain overflows, floods, with the sensation of Tony's lips on yours. There is nothing else, just the press of your body against his, his hands on your shoulders, holding you to him. Jesus Christ, it's amazing.
And then he pulls away.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" His face is still so close, you can feel his breath over your skin, but that's not enough. Why had he stopped? Had you done something wrong? Had you done anything at all?
You grip the front of his shirt in your fists and pull him back, throwing everything you have into the kiss. It's hard and forced, but it's real and it's you doing it.
Splitting your attention is difficult. You have to concentrate on what your mouth does, where your hands go, when to breathe, all while your sensory cortex overloads in a blitzkrieg of information. Tony, everywhere, all around you, His smell, his taste, the feel of him against you. It's wonderful and amazing and so, so distracting. And it all gets mixed up with a flurry of yes, please, yes, yes, please, yes, more.
Tony pushes you away and rests his forehead against yours. "Hold on, just"—you cut him off with a kiss and he laughs against your mouth—"just hold on one second. This is okay, right? You're good with this?"
"We're good. It's good." You kiss him again. This is taking way too much concentration to keep track of a conversation and kissing him at the same time.
"I was thinking maybe we should start with one of those"—kiss—"date"—kiss—"things."
"Whatever you want," you mumble against his lips.
"Tonight?"—kiss—"Seven-ish?"
Things get hazy after that. At some point, you end up on Tony's lap. You're pretty sure your shirt comes off not too long after. Honestly, you probably aren't getting enough oxygen—the breathing subroutine didn't survive the first ten seconds—but you're past caring. Somehow, this is exactly what you'd wanted to happen.
#
Tony's plan was to take you to dinner. Food was the number one thing you said you missed, right? And he can get a last minute table at every five star restaurant in... well, everywhere. So, where to start? Cheeseburgers? Asian fusion? Ethiopian? Ice cream? Suddenly, he's not sure what his plan was. He wants to take you somewhere, but he also wants to be alone with you. Even a waiter would ruin that. In the end, he just, kind of... panics.
"How many restaurants did you order from?" you ask, surveying the sea of takeout boxes that cover the lab.
Tony shrugs. "All of them."
"When I said I wanted to eat everything, this is not what I had in mind."
"Well,"—he holds out a box of chicken fried rice to lure you to him—"you've missed a lot."
You look to the offered box and look back to him, forehead crinkled. "I can't use chopsticks yet. I can't—" You look at your hands, opening and closing your fingers.
"That's okay." Tony puts the rice aside in favor of eggrolls. "I have finger food too."
The smallest of smiles touches your lips, just slow enough that he can see how much effort it took. You take one of the eggrolls and look around the lab, methodically scanning from left to right. "It looks different this way. Bigger."
"You can come in whenever you want." Tony finds that he means that. Really, really means it. The lab was always Tony's sanctuary. No one else stayed long because no one else wanted to. And Tony liked the solitude. You're different. You belong in his space.
You take a bite and chew, rolling the food around in your mouth before you swallow. "What are we doing tonight?"
Tony wraps his arms around your waist. "'I thought I'd put those hands of yours to good use."
"Oh, really?" You look up at him and somehow manage to look completely innocent and wickedly seductive at the same time. "What did you have in mind?"
"I have a 1964 Mustang with a partially built engine."
"You're going to let me play with your tools?"
Tony releases you and turns to the car. "Actually, I bought you your own set. I don't share."
"I'm shocked," you say. Tony indicates a rolling stool next to the car and you—after a lengthy pause—sit carefully on it and look up at him. "I'm more of a software than a hardware person."
"Lucky for you"—Tony sits on his own stool and rolls to join you—"you have a genius to help you." He hands you a socket wrench.
"Really? When does she get here?" You smile and Tony sees the same mischievous sparkle that had appeared so often in the hologram.
Tony points to part of the engine. "You're going to start with this piece." You set to work.
It's nice—companionable. Tony settles into a familiar comfort zone. This is good, the lab is good, you are good, it's all very, very good. The silence between you—punctuated by the clink of metal against metal—is comfortable, not awkward. It feels almost like it did when he was working on the mesh for the software, with your voice always in his ear.
But he couldn't touch you then. Tony finds himself running his hands over you because—fuck it—he can. He puts his hands over yours to show you how to use the tools, wraps his arms around you, rests his chin on your shoulder to watch what you're doing. He wasn't always a cuddly person. His parents weren't exactly affectionate. The casual touches of strangers always made him squirm. Sex was different. It wasn't intimate—despite the nudity—but more about his ego or just having fun. He never felt vulnerable then. Except with Pepper. Except with you.
Okay, so he hasn't had sex with you, but he can imagine. He traces the pattern of the tattoos on your thighs, peppers kisses over your bare shoulders. You hair has started to grow in, a soft dusting covering your head that tickles his face when he nuzzles your ear.
As you focus, your movements become more fluid, until it seems like you're concentrating on them less and less and spending more time talking to Tony. He's not surprised by what you know about him—which is pretty much everything. Tony's life is documented extensively online, so you would have had ready access to it during your time on the net. It's what you ask that is surprising. You want to know about everything, his thoughts on his designs, his plans for how to improve things in the future, ideas he scrapped, everything in between. Tony likes talking about ideas, they're easier than feelings. And it keeps him away from the dangerous territory of his personal life. Family, friends (or lack of), Pepper... none of those are good first date topics.
Date. It's strange, Tony's not sure he's ever actually been on one of those before. With Pepper, things just... happened. They just added a new dimension to everything that already existed. It was like they'd been going on dates for years. With you, Tony knows everything and nothing about you. The innermost workings of your mind are scanned and copied and triple-backed up. The way you talk and move and interact with him are familiar now. How you feel, what you want to do—those are new. He's looking forward to the discovery.
Now that he knows that maybe you want to know him too—beyond the fame and hype and armor—something that had been writhing inside him ever since you woke up settles just a little.
#
Lunchtime at the Avengers' compound. It's still weird. You aren't sure where you stand with most of these people. Blaire seems friendly enough (though it's harder to communicate with her now that you aren't plugged into FRIDAY's ASL database), but you're pretty sure Rhodey has a secret plan to take you out if necessary. It would be easier if you could read facial expressions well. But even after a few months, that's still slow going. You have walking down pretty well and the breathing subroutine is almost entirely unconscious. You spend most of your time in Tony's lab, typing, working on your fine motor control. And talking. And touching. It's going well. The only hiccup really is that sleeping is still... ugh. It's not that anything goes wrong while you're sleeping, but you can't control anything that way. It's too close to the nothingness you'd feared when you made the jump to your body. Most nights you stay up doing anything else until you're too tired and just sort of collapse wherever you are.
You fill your plate with take-out leftovers: pork fried rice, curry, a few enchiladas, and a piece of carrot cake. You eat almost constantly now. The more flavors the better, even if they clash. They're delightful.
Tony and Steve bicker over the television settings. Something about choosing between a baseball game (Steve) and an F1 race (Tony). You never were interested in sports, but listening to their voices is pleasant. You carefully divide your attention: listen to the conversation, balance the plate, move the fork between the food and your mouth, breathe, remain standing... your concentration drifts. If they're going to keep arguing, maybe no one would care if you switched it to Family Feud.
You're on your feet, until you aren't. It's a sharp imbalance, like the ground is yanked out from under you in a game of tug of war. Your mind streams through the data channels, as freeform as you ever were before. You scrabble for purchase, sliding through the electric stream. You whirl through the chaos, tumbling topsy turvy, end over end. You struggle against it, trying to orient yourself like you'd been caught in a riptide at the beach. Once familiar data paths stream past and you reach for any anchor. You lose track of your form as it dissolves into binary, leaving the mesh and your body far behind.