bakerstreet | my blood is boiling; my brain's IBM

Entry tags:

[meme] shipping

my blood is boiling; my brain's IBM

NOT just A ROBOT
shipping meme

There's always a right tool for the job, be it as simple as a hammer for a nail or on up to the much, much more complex. In this, the near future, the new tool for the abstract, post-modern job is no longer from the humble tool box - it's robots. Robots have taken over most sectors, such as assembly, law enforcement, and even health care. Things run so much smoother when they're automated. Yet the most impressive factor is that robots have just recently begun to enter a sector previously believed to require human touch: the personal sector. From personal assistants to robo bodyguards to pleasurebots, most anyone who's anyone has a personal robot these days. Of course, humanity being the narcissistic charmers we are, all "companion" sector robots are made in our own beautiful image, or close to it.

But you know this. You have a personal robot, after all...or you are one.

Whether owner or robot, it's important to remember one key rule: robots, no matter how human they appear, cannot feel emotions. Any appearances thereof are programming in the AI.

Robots certainly, absolutely, cannot fall in love. Again, any appearances thereof are programming in the AI. If that's not the case, and "love" still seems present...

...well, a toll that no longer functions correctly may not be right for the job.

HOW TO PLAY ➟

Comment with your character, preference, and whether you want to play a human or a robot.
Reply to others.
Use the RNG to choose a prompt or pick one yourself.

OWNER ➟

Long Time Owner → You and your robot are a well-oiled machine, no pun intended.
New Purchase → Congratulations, you have your brand new personal bot!
Second Hand → Someone else owned this robot before you, but it can't be too damaged. There's no way you could afford a brand new one, anyway.
For Science! → Your interests in robots are purely scientific. No matter how yours begins to act towards you, honest!
Rescue → Whether you took them from the dump or from a bad owner, you brought this robot from the jaws of deletion.
Reluctant → You never wanted a robot, but you've got one thrust on you anyway.
Cruel → They're just a fancy computer, so you'll treat them however you like.
See the Humanity → Even if you know it's all machinery and programming, you can't help but see the human side of your robot. They shouldn't have to be a servant.
What's Real and What's Not → The lines are beginning to blur between real people and their emotions and your robot.
Incompatible → You can't be with a machine, either romantically or sexually. You're simply not compatible.
Too Engrossed → They say you've created a fantasy world. You're forgetting reality, or choosing to ignore it.
Don't Care → You won't listen to what the others say; you know how you feel.
Have to Pull Away → The close relationship you had with your robot has to be put aside for your own good.
Live a Normal Life → As much as you can, you and your robot live like a normal couple.
Bad End → Your robot is taken away, reprogrammed, or destroyed.

ROBOT ➟

The Perfect Robot → You know what you and exactly what you were made to do. You will not stray.
More Human than Human → Whoever programmed you made you to be just like a human.
Conflicted → There is no way you could have what they call "feelings." But what is this stirring in your circuitry?
Confused → Why do people treat you like a robot? You're a living thing, damn it!
Damaged → Somehow, you've been corrupted. You're a blank slate and have to be cared for, though it should be the opposite. Or it could be that you're showing erratic behavior that no robot should...
Shown Kindness → When you're treated kindly by a human, you are unsure how to process it. It makes you feel - content.
No Longer Just a Program → Your "love" and "affection" may have been shades and imitations at first, but that's not the case any longer.
Obsolete Model → You know you're old. Will you be forced to leave your master's side?
Jealousy → A robot should not feel jealous. Still, you envy those close to your master.
Job is Personal → You were programmed to protect or to serve, though you also do it because you...care
Second Chance → Your old master tossed you aside and now you are wary. But you've been given another chance instead of being used for scrap.
Rogue → There is no way you will be tied to the oppressive system. You refuse to serve the Living Things. Somehow, though, you've become aligned with one.
One of a Kind → There are no other robots like you, and perhaps you are intended for a sinister fate. Rather than face your true duty, you have escaped to take refuge with a human.
Specialty → You were created specifically for this one special person.
Reprogrammed → Because of previous defects, you were taken back to factory settings before. However, that treacherous virus, "love," is bubbling back up.
Android → You can't just forget the part of you that was - still is - organic.
Learn to Be Human → Despite the odds and the prejudices you both will face, you have decided to live as a free, living person with the one you care for most.
Bad End → You're to be junked, impacted, wiped clean, or taken away from your owner.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

[ Tony slides into the driver's seat without checking his phone- he knows it's only going to be another round of frustrating texts and driving in New York is irritating enough. Better not to risk it. But that look, the answer he gets? It's-

He can't read it, not really. There's something inscrutable there, layered with a vulnerability he doesn't think he's ever seen on Bruce and that is both fascinating as it is horribly unhelpful as all it does is invite further consideration of his face. Which is a face Tony is trying not to think about too much. Fuck. Last night didn't help near as well as he might've liked if he's still wondering, a little, what it'd be like to do more than pat Bruce on the shoulder or squeeze his wrist.

Nope. Nope. Power dynamics are fucked he's just- no. Focusing on the drive. ]

Fair enough.

[ For a second, it looks like Tony might understand what's really going on. Just a second, like he's studying Bruce and forming a conclusion he just hasn't run a sim on it yet. And then the moment passes and he settles into the passenger's seat with a little less awkwardness than he might have the day before.

He feels, for once, a little more in control of the situation.

And so he flicks the radio back on, but he changes it from ac/dc to zeppelin without another word.

They head home. ]

[ It's a simple enough drive. Tony's quiet, shoring himself, his words, and his reasoning up in preparation of what's about to come down on his head like it probably should've before he ever started this project but- it's done, he's done it, and Bruce exists now. Better, brighter, happier than he'd been in the cloud and he refuses to apologize for that.

Not informing people earlier, sure, but. Today was good. It was a sign of growth, of direction, and he's just going to hold on tight to that smile when he's in Pepper's office. They pull in, he replaces the keys, checks in with Happy, and slips out of the car, ready to face the music. ]

You head up to the Lab. I've got a meeting with the boss. [ A beat. ] SHe might call you in the lab to form an opinion after she's had it out with me but you don't have to answer if you don't want to. That's your choice.

[ Unlike Tony, who has zero options but to stand and face the wrath of a woman trying her best to keep him from going off the rails. The current winning argument is 'do you want to be like von doom' which is a real mood killer, let Tony tell you. ] I don't know if it's relevant or- anything but the lab in the floor directly below the workshop is empty right now. I've got no one leasing it. If there's something you want to work on or research or- anything? It's yours. Tell J what you need.

[ And it's probably a little unfair, dumping this on Bruce as he breezes past to the elevator that'll take him straight to Pepper, that he's gone from seeing and dealing with Tony at his most open and honest to this locked tight, flippant shell but. He can't crack open right before heading to the firing squad. ]

See you in an hour.

[ Before today he might've balked at the thought, but he feels like he's got some solid legs under him now. He's not traumatized by the idea of having to deal with new people, and he's heard enough about Pepper to have some basic understanding on how she operates. She is an inherently good person who largely looks out for Tony's best interests, and that's. Something he can respect. So he says: ]

It's fine.

[ And he means it. He appreciates the offer to use the floor below the workshop as well, but this isn't the kind of experiment that necessitates a place to work. Not yet, at any rate, unless things get to a point where he involves... someone else, in which case...

Yeah he'll just hold off on that plan, no sense counting his chickens before they hatch.

Tony's ten-mile high wall also isn't much of an issue, not right now, not when he's got so much himself to think about. So he gives a tight smile, something of a constipated looking nod, and shuffles himself loose of the company.

Heads back to his workstation to find out what the fuck Facebook is. ]

[ Jarvis helps as much as he can RE the understanding of social media, pointing to Tony's own verified accounts on Facebook and Twitter as prime examples. A few photos of the museum trip already wait on Tony's page- nothing with Bruce in them but exhibits, a shot of Betty in Profile smiling at a colleague, a quick selfie with some curious college students. Things he can manage by route, things that are good for humanizing him. Reminding people he's a person which he has to do a hell of a lot more of than expected.

His latest tweet was from yesterday, RE crawling around in vents like John McClane, not fun, do not recommend.

Snippets of the life he gives the public because damn near everything about his life has always been for public consumption. That's never changed.

One hour becomes one and a half, Pepper does in fact call, voice calm if stern. The usual questions, does he have a satisfactory quality of life, has Tony tried to force him into anything, does he feel any latent homicidal urges- that last one gets a muttered 'what the everloving fuck, Pep?' from Tony in the background, low and small and wounded before she considers herself satisfied that he's not a legal or physical threat to Tony Stark.

Tony himself comes up another half hour after that, stalking straight to the sofa so he can fucking collapse finally. All the fire's burnt right out of him, all his pride, everything he could've thought might've been a good reason for doing this was found decidedly lacking, Pep wrapping it up with the neat bow of 'what if he never wanted this in the first place' has him thinking way too hard on what he's doing, how he's fucked this up and-

He needs Scotch. Desperately. ]

Fuck. Everything.

[ An hour in, Bruce sets up his own social media account. It's sparse as hell, he's got a grand total of five friends, but he officially exists on the internet as a real person and not a singular touch of Tony's influence exists anywhere on it. Not that Tony's influence is a bad thing, it's just... an indication that he's made his own choices and developed his own personality independently, which believe it or not, matters.

Half an hour after that he gets a call, and he feels what he imagines teenage boys feel like when talking to their girlfriends' mothers. Yes, Ms. Potts he has a satisfactory life. No, Ms. Potts he hasn't been forced into anything that makes him feel uncomfortable. Well, Ms. Potts if we're honest he sometimes feels like strangling Tony Stark to death with his tie, but that usually passes because he's got good intentions and, you know, it's Tony.

By the time he comes back to the workshop, Bruce has accomplished a hell of a lot on his to-do list. He's feeling pretty centered, in fact, which is a direct juxtaposition to Tony's own mental state, evidently. He wanders over, sort of ambles really, and makes Tony a drink without being asked.

Not like a bot would do, mind you, but like what a friend would do. He feels like the distinction is important. Once he passes it over he settles kindly into the couch, crossing his arms absently over his chest and settling Tony with an amused look. ]

Rough meeting?

[ He tries to promise himself he won't knock the drink back all in one go, that he won't take his mood (he knows it's a Mood, that it's going to leave him frustrated and surly and on the edges of cruel so he probably shouldn't linger around Bruce but this was his safe space first and he's not fucking moving) out on Bruce but of the two he can only really manage one. On the one hand: Good for Bruce, he looks calmer, better, less- whatever the fuck it'd been yesterday after they crawled around Jarvis' brain. He'll take that win. He'll even be happy he seems to have maintained the good mood that came of their outing.

Really, under the scowl he's fucking ecstatic.

So. Not taking it out on Bruce, he can manage that. Barely. It's literally not Bruce's fault. It's no one's but his own and all Pep did was give him too much to think about, another layer of shit to worry about on top of 'was this the right call, why did he do this in the first place, your intentions are always questionable no matter how well you mean shit, the path to hell is paved with-

Etc etc ad infinitum. ]

Understatement. [ He takes the scotch and downs the glass in one long swallow, keeping his eyes on the ceiling because that? That's safe. He can't glare at someone that doesn't deserve it if he's staring at the ceiling. ] So we're pushing ahead with our AI rights legislation about a decade earlier than Pepper thought we'd need to and that's going to be...a thing.

[ Currently there's nothing down because- there aren't enough to warrant it and no one knows how to define this shit in the first place. Point one of sixty five reasons Tony is Pepper's Personal Nightmare today. ]

[ It's an... interesting vibe, there's no doubt about that. He hasn't exactly had the opportunity to see Tony quite like this. Half dead? Check. Uncomfortable as hell? Check. Focused on a seemingly insurmountable problem? Yep, done that. Vulnerable, uncertain, supportive, concentrating, happy, distracted. He hasn't, however, gotten to see this.

Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut. Knows he wouldn't have the right words to say, knows there might not actually be any, knows his existence is the reason this is happening in the first place. Doesn't know how he feels about it, but that can wait for now.

Does not know what the right... thing to do is. How to be a good... supportive... thing, right now. Does Tony consider him a friend? Or is he, like, a lamp? A piece of decorative art, an absent addition to the workshop? Whatever the case may be, doesn't know how to be a good one of those. He considers saying thanks for the whole AI rights thing, but... yeah, he's going to raincheck that for a better time when he might not be poking a bear. Instead, he just nods vaguely like he understands, just a sign that he's listening.

Maybe the best thing he can really do is say nothing and just... exist supportively, quietly, somewhere a foot or so to Tony's right. See if he wants to, you know, vent- if he does, Bruce is sure the words will spill out without his prompting. If he doesn't, well, conversation wouldn't be the right move anyway. ]

[ Silence never really sat well with Tony, not when his head is full of a million thoughts whirling too fast to handle, his throat too full of words to be any kind of coherent. It stretches like an open wound, raw edged and angry and always that anger turned inward. His father had wanted him quiet, made him sit and sulk and simmer and paste a fucking smile on over it because company was over, because it wouldn't do for the Starks to have a son that felt anything but bland amusement.

Call him bitter, he is. Call him not entirely well adjusted- that's not untrue.

But it's given him a distinct inability to hold this shit in when he's somewhere he feels comfortable and- that's always been the workshop. Rhodey's not here because Rhodey's slept through this revelation- so he's got an earful to look forward to in the morning when HE gets on the hype train to how Tony's fucked it all up- but usually? If he can't talk to Pep, he talks to Rhodey. If he can't talk to Rhodey- he talks to Jarvis.

Bruce is here and...trying. While Tony knows damn well he's trying, so. With a cracked giggle that's on this side of hysteria, barely, he scrubs a hand over his face, groaning into the air. Seal popped. Out come the words. ]

I didn't think it needed to be a thing till after I died, just a way to make sure that no one tries to use J or the boys or hurt them when I'm gone but it's kind of impossible to give someone a social security number if their legal status is a shrug emoji. Getting it put through won't be an issue, Jarvis exists as a benevolent precedent so it's not all on you- but keeping it quiet? That's the bitch of it. Because I don't have enough people claiming I'm the anti-christ trying to force the techological apocalypse on mankind or some shit, and that's what it'll be all day, every day, which'll influence the vote, and there's no way to spin this beause people will want to know why and I can't fucking answer that in any sort of boilerplate because I don't fucking know.

[ Which. Is the real bitch of it, really. He does't know. He saw he could do the thing and did the thing because of an impulse. Because- he doesn't know. Inspiration comes and he follows it until he has a product. ]

And it's not the first time I haven't had a fucking plan for what I've made, something sticks in my brain till I need to make it happen just to get it out and stop haunting me and as long as it's something we can market and sell, ho shit, that's the best thing ever, way to go Tony, keep up the good work, keep cranking out those golden fucking eggs-

[ Ah, fuck, bad thought, worst posture for that particular thought and he knows he's fine, he knows, he's absolutely fine but a hand snags and claws at his shirt till it's over the reactor, pressing down until he can feel the hum and thrum and reminder that it's there in his chest and he's fine, it's fine, everything's fucking fine.

Except it's not, it's hard to breathe and, fuck. Now is not the time. Now is very much not the fucking time- he sucks air in through his teeth, hunching forward, one hand over his eyes, the other still pressed tight against the reactor. He's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine. ]

[ Five hours ago, Bruce didn't know what Facebook was. Five hours ago he didn't have a last name. Thirty-six hours ago he hadn't felt any sort of intense physical attraction, and wasn't aware he could have a physiological response to it. There's an entire Wikipedia section worth of shit he doesn't know about or has never experienced.

He has, however, had his fair share of anxiety attacks. He knows the look of them, he knows the feel of them, he can tell by the way the words tumble out of Tony's mouth because that's how it feels in his head when it's happening to him. He's had one maybe every other day for a couple weeks, give or take, and they're... they're rough. They're hard to break through, generally he does it by laying on top of the otherwise unused sheets in the suite he's been given, staring up at the ceiling and letting it roll over him in waves while he tries to introspect his way through them.

Sometimes even thinking through them logically doesn't help, because some problems are bigger than simply understanding, just because you know the solution to the problem doesn't make the problem suck any less. He knows there are methods to divert his mind from them, like burying himself in research or reading or filling his mind with pointless music.

He knows that when he has them he feels wholly, insurmountably alone.

So he reaches out tentatively to settle a hand on Tony's back. Just a careful, flat, still touch somewhere beneath his shoulder blade. If he pulls away that's fine, he'd understand, he won't take offense to it. You never really know what people need as a comfort until you've tried, or you've asked, except he gets the feeling he wouldn't get a straight answer right now anyway, so. He'll try this, and if it's a swing and a miss he'll file that away for future reference.

A beat later, he offers up an earnest-sounding correction: ]

My legal status is the poop emoji.

[ Which is... not helpful. It's not. He just doesn't know what to say that is. He's got no way to offer any kind of consolation, he doesn't know the legal precedent, he doesn't know how to apologize for making Tony's life abruptly more complicated than it needs to be, he doesn't know the right way to deal with the political fallout of it all.

He just.

Doesn't.

All he can really do is be here. ]

[ For a solid three, four seconds that stretch on for an eternity he can't hear anything past the surging of his pulse, filling his ears like that fucking high wine and it's all white noise, it's all static and he's gone, it's over, it's been over for years, and he hates that the wrong thought or the wrong frequency can still knock the legs out from under him and it's just one more fucking thing in the middle of everything else that he's caused for himself, because it is his fault for trusting Obie so damn much, it's his fault for not paying attention, his fault for trying too hard, his fault for being him that it all coils and boils and starts dragging him somewhere he can't claw out of-

And then there's a hand on his back that's solid and warm and that's what always worked when he was younger (this has been a lifetime affliction, who's surprised? Not fucking Tony) Rhodey reaching out to get him to settle. Holding him down so he wouldn't float away. It's the exact right thing in the right moment, cutting through the intrusive thoughts that dig in like knives, cutting Tony slowly until there's nothing worthwhile left-

Jokes on him, there wasn't anything worthwhile to start with-

but it's enough to get him to listen. To hear something so fucking bizarre and off the wall and disconnected from the tsunami of issues that it breaks him a little.

A lot.

Laughter tumbles past his fingers, a bright, crackling cackle that trails off into helpless giggling, he lists over until he's slumped against Bruce, breath slowing to something a little less likely to fuck up his diaphragm. ]

You're a fucking asshole. [ He gasps between one string of laughter and the next, wiping at his eyes. ]

[ Tony leans into him and for a second, for a hot second, he's concerned he's said the wrong thing. That Tony thinks he didn't take it seriously enough, that he's insisetive, that he's- and then the laughter comes out, and he finds himself acting instinctively. Finds himself sliding that hand up, around, curling behind Tony's shoulders and pulling him in.

He's never done this before. They've never done this before. This isn't... it's not a hug so much as it is carefully tucking Tony under his arm and holding him there. Settling his chin against Tony's hair. Just... trying not to fuck up too much, which is Not Easy let him tell you. ]

Yeah, well... [ He agrees vaguely, dismissively. ] Art imitates life, or.... maybe I am just an enormous fucking asshole. It's really a toss-up.

[ He's never been quite as off-kilter as he is right now. Never floundered so much. He has literally no basis for this, he's on an island with no idea which direction to swim. He picks the one that feels best and commits. Hopes he chooses right.

God help him. ]

Why are my friends all assholes? Why?

[ And if Bruce needed a label, if Tony needed one (and he does, desperately, he can't handle things without some sort of compartment to put things in mentally) there it is. Bruce is, even more than one of the best things he's helped come to life, his friend. A sarcastic, anxious asshole that somehow knew exactly what to do or say- or at least stumbled into an appropriate response.

Tony curls into the space provided, leaning into the contact, into Bruce as the world slowly stops closing in. As shit becomes slightly more bearable. ]

I'm putting you in my phone contacts as the poop emoji when you get a phone. Just so you know.

I think they've done studies that prove assholes move in flocks, like seagulls.

[ He answers, sounding every bit like a jaded David Attenborough doing an episode of Blue Planet or something. Just a casual statement of fact on the nature of the migratory habits of assholes.

He doesn't miss the use of the term. The categorization, the definitive label. It's nice, one he'll reflect on later, one that puts a warm, glowing coal in his chest. Something that radiates heat out, something he can't identify. It's not attraction, it's... he felt it once before, back when Tony was injured. Something like... anxiety and... other pieces, something complex. He never got around to finding the right word, the right name for it. He feels it again now, and even still he can't remember what the emotion's supposed to be called.

He doesn't sweat it. He's got more important things to focus on.

He finds his fingertips moving absently, tracing a back and forth pattern up and down Tony's arm. This is what people do, right? He'd seen it earlier today, seen a guy with his arm around a girl, seen his fingertips traveling up to shoulder then down to elbow and back again, back and forth for... as long as he'd looked at least and, presumably, longer.

He does it now because it seems like it might help. He imagines the sensation, imagines it to be grounding, calming, nice. He thinks those are all the right message to put forth without saying it in so many words. ]

I got one, actually. [ He admits, sounding a little surprised Tony didn't know it already. ] On Amazon. You're already in it, but clearly I'm going to have to relabel you if this is war.

[ It is just as grounding, just as soothing as it looked. Jangled nerves settle, every inch of him that had been spinning in his head or pinned to a sofa half a hemisphere away several years ago just sinks right back into the dark tide of memory. Ghosts that were screaming in his ears are banished in favor of the driest, wryest commentary to come from anyone that wasn't Rhodey or Jarvis and this? This is how he knows Bruce is his friend. Because of the amount of shit he gives Tony, how often he tries to check him, keep him from doing stupid shit.

Whatever the tension had been yesterday? It feels not only gone, but broken. This needed to be established. That he's a mess, that Bruce doesn't mind-

And that they're friends.

He's got so few, he can count them on one hand easily- including Bruce. So few he trusts this deep and, is it fair if he's made him? It is, since Jarvis is one of his oldest friends too. So it's not new. ]

If it's not a Starkphone I'm docking your pay. Just so you know. If you ordered an I phone I am going to dissemble something you love and turn it into a microwave. If it's a fucking Windows whatever you're going in the corner with Dum-E and the hat.

[ There's a long moment where his words hesitate but his hand doesn't. Finally, he admits: ]

It's a blackberry.

[ And he knows, he knows as soon as he says it he's going to get shit for it. He knows, and it's clear in his voice that he knows, like's he's admitting guilt, like he's ready for the onslaught.

Not just because it's not a Starkphone, but because it's not an Apple or a Samsung, it's not even an android. Before Stark can even say a damn thing, he adds: ]

Let me just- [ And he does the most toneless, most monotone version of Tony Stark the world has ever heard: ] "Toaster-stroodle, that's the VHS tape of phones. Bruce-Money, that's like the eight track tape of phones. It's the Zune of phones. The pager of phones. That's the phone other phones use when they need to call 911 because they've been shot and all their backup phone friends are dead in a ditch." Did... Did I miss anything?

...A Blackberry?

[ That is five different levels of incredulity, confusion, subdued rage, shame on Bruce's behalf, and sheer motherfucking offence rolled up in a single word. He takes a breath to get a good burn rolling because this is fucking perfect, it's all lined up for him, laid up on a silver platter just begging for it-

And Bruce goes and takes it all and says it his own damn self and he should stay offended. He should. He wants to. He's got his brow furrowed from where he's squinting up at him, his jaw locked, and a few explicit gestures ready to throw but nope. Bruce has every single thought he'd had laid out in turn like he was expecting it, because he was, because he knows him and gets him and how fucking dare he call Tony out like this.

Unfair. Rude. ]

That's the phone Telegrams look at and go 'damn, you basic.' [ Then and only then, with that cherry on top, can he lose his shit laughing again. High and bright and graceless, helpless, not the PR chuckle or the raggedy, hysterical thing from before. Not the breathless huff or the practiced friendly, wholesome thing or sarcastic snicker. This has fucking snorts in it, Tony's nose screwed up, eyes squeezed shut as he wheezes. ]

Fuck you, how dare- that is- that's unreasonable, that's insulting, that is slander.

[ He can't help it. He can't. His head falls back and he laughs, breathy and genuinely, at the ceiling because- okay, the delivery on that one was just... It was good.

He laughs through Tony's laughter, he laughs through the protests, he just. He can't help it.

And then he knows.

He knows the name for that feeling. It almost makes his stomach bottom out, almost rips his breath out of his chest.

All he can think, really, is: Oh, hell. That makes sense.

It's why Elizabeth Ross won't work out, why her colleagues are just distant thoughts without names to him still because he's forgotten them all, it's why no other set of shoulders will really do it for him quite the same way.

Yeah.

Makes sense.

Sadly, quietly, and with no small amount of resignation, he accepts it. ]

[ Tony's still wheezing by the time his fit of laughter has passed, wiping at his eyes, face half burrowed into Bruce's shoulder because it's there, it's warm, it's solid and it's safe. Every last thing that felt like it was going to kill him half an hour ago? Out of his mind.

He can't regret helping Bruce become...Bruce. Giving him bones, giving him space to grow and figure himself out. He won't. And he won't apologize, not when this is the result. A person. No more, no less, a complicated, creative, fucking brilliant person that's still learning and growing and adapting at a fascinating rate, with wit and humor to spare and oh fuck there are so many red flags here.

So many.

The biggest would be that he was willing to Fight Pepper on this. It's not something he does much of anymore, not since the split, it's not often worth it but this? He was braced for it and would in a heartbeat. Everything else is set dressing. Bruce- matters.

The way Pepper Matteres. The way Rhodey Matters.

Why does he have such a fucking type? ]

I'm serious- I'm gutting that thing as soon as it gets here and replacing it with a Starkphone. No friend of mine is walking around with that antiquated bullshit.

[ It's sort of a testament to how absorbed in fighting Pepper he'd been during their trip, he supposes, that he hadn't noticed Bruce punching in the phone numbers of a few microbiologists in a lab at the museum of national history.

He shifts, left arm still wrapped around Tony's shoulders but the right dipping behind him for his right back pocket.

And there it is, the fucking Blackberry, which he holds out like he's surrendering contraband. ]

Knock yourself out.

[ He says, sounding equal parts resigned and amused.

He's not all that attached to it, if he's honest. It'd been like the Prius decision had been; sensible, not overly flashy, reliable, probably unbreakable. Let him gut it if it'll keep him busy and keep the laughter in his chest. ]

...Jarvis I'm blaming you for allowing this into our house without saying anything. You're grounded.

I'm a building, sir. I cannot possibly be more grounded.

[ Which only prompts another wave of helpless laughter, nothing but sass and salt today. All he needs is Dum-E spilling something on him to make a point and the trifecta will be complete. ]

I will find a way to make a dunce cap large enough for this tower, J, don't think I won't.

[ He won't, it'd ruin the skyline but the mental image is enough to keep him laughing while he palms the thing, motioning to Dum-E to wheel over a tray of tools and circuitry for him to actually start working on this thing. ]

All of you are terrible except for Dum-E. Dum-E is the best behaved out of all of you right now, I want you to think about that.

[ The commentary, the back and forth, is enough to keep his lips quirking up into an amused, muted smile as he settles back into the couch. Lets his arm slip from Tony's shoulders, but keeps it thrown along the top of the cushions behind him. Room to work, something to fall back into. Feels like a safe choice. ]

Suck up.

[ He accuses the arm mildly, in good humor and not a trace of seriousness to his tone.

The worst has passed, and while it may just be a temporary thing, it's nice. Quiet, comfortable. Home.

When the big issues come up again-- and they will-- at least he'll have an idea of how to help deal with them. ]

[ Dum-E pivots to face his camera twoard Bruce, buzzes a tone not entirely unlike a raspberry-

Then flips his hand around to extend one of his three claws while keeping the other two closed tight. ]

Oh my god- did Barton teach you that? Barton taught you that.

[ It's anarchy in his lab. Disorganized chaos and that is the one thing that makes it home. More than anything else, more than the work under his hands and the warmth of Bruce's thigh brushed up against his, the buzzing whirr of a scandalized beep from U, who is truly the good child if Dum-E is picking up obscene gestures from their resident Hawk-guy.

It's a good night, replacing the innards of Bruce's phone and forgetting everything that had him wound tight in the first place.

But it doesn't last, not really. Rhodey has his piece to say in the morning which- that's fair. That's fine.

Then the lawyers with their questions, a psychiatrist wants to interview Jarvis to verify sentience before they breach the prospect of maybe dealing with Bruce. That'll be phase two of this whole ordeal. Then it's Pepper still not quite understanding, refusing to let Tony walk it off with an 'I don't know', an investor's meeting that drags on for fucking ever, a coding error in the armor that effects the navigation so he's benched for a mission that leaves Barton with a broken leg and Steve isn't blaming him at all but he'll carry that guilt alongside everything else without batting a lash because he should've been there to catch him-

Or at least been able to design a fucking parachute for him by now.

It's three, four days of this shit before he decides he needs to rearrange his schedule and make a few calls. A quick text to Toaster Bagel Triple Poop emoji (bruce) gives him all the heads up he'll need while he's out on the junkfood run and scheduling the takeout delivery. ]

Going to light up in the lab tonight, J's initiating lockdown protocol for sensitive aka dangerous experiments and tech. R&D's available if you need to work on anything.

[ Usually he doesn't do this alone but Rhodey is kind of pissed at him so. Smoking, snacking on shit that's terrible for him, and watching shitty scifi is the plan for the rest of the day. Tony's dressed down in worn cotton drawstring pants and an MIT tee when he comes up from the run, bags of chips, snack cakes, fresh fruit, and canned tea in his hands. Dum-E had cleared off the coffee table next to the sofa for him to start arranging this, the e-blunt (patent not really pending it's kind of illegal but whatever) and it's cartridges laid out alongside as he checks the time.

Just before nine in the morning. He plans to spend a solid twenty hours baked out of his mind- or at least enough that his mind shuts the fuck up for a day. A soft reset, keep shit from creeping up on him and dragging him down. ]

[ The text rolls in from 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆 as he's finishing up an email to Elizabeth. They've had a steady back and forth since the tour, an easy and loose sort of email chain that largely focuses on her work but with a few personal asides filtered in. She keeps recommending he go through the process of getting some kind of doctorate on paper, and he can't exactly outright tell her he has to have a name on paper before he can do that. He hedges with excuses, but tells her he appreciates the sentiment. It's nice.

As it stands, he doesn't exactly have a hell of a lot on the docket, and watching Tony light up is going to be a hell of an interesting afternoon, that's for sure. He's not convinced to join with the offer of the virtual equivalency of the feeling, but he's not against settling into the couch and seeing how it effects him.

Or seeing him fucking relax, that'll be a little novel too, in a way. He doesn't wander over until Tony's got his little station all set up, fruit and vape organized, drinks at the ready, looking like the most comfortable damn man on the planet.

This ought to be interesting.]

J's got this strain scanned in if you want to give it a whirl.

[ For the duration of days like this Dum-E and U are usually settled in their charging stations, compiling code, mostly to keep him from asking them to do ridiculous shit while under the influence. J knows well enough when to indulge him and when to ignore him. Bruce he trusts on the same level. The Bots? A bit too eager to please. He hasn't taken a single drag yet but the ritual of setting up his day of unwinding has already loosened some of the tension he'd been carrying in his shoulders. Makes it easier for him to settle into a casual, wide legged sprawl on the sofa, sinking into familiar cushions with zero grace or shame. This will be good. He needs to shut off for a little bit, it's fine, a little selfish maybe, but he's A) Not doing it alone and B) It's weed. It's not going to fuck him up in the longterm.

Mental pep talk given and taken? He slips the first cartridge in and takes a deep drag, filling his lungs. Holding it, he tips his head up, blinking as he counts down from ten before pursing his lips to blow a series of smoke rings. Old tricks that still fucking amuse the hell out of him.

As long as it's been- he coughs a little. Gets lightheaded but he's already on the sofa, already as close to boneless as he's going to get before this shit kicks in.

This shit smelling mostly of vanilla and strawberries thanks to his botanist/biochem hookup. Hell yeah. ]

J, remind me to send Dr. Palmer a fruit basket or something, this might be her best batch yet.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject