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WHO: Tony Stark, dangerously open
WHERE: Tony's Calibration Room
WHAT: You're stuck in Tony's head and good luck, buddy, he doesn't want to be there, either.
WHEN: During the Calibration Event (June 3rd - July 10th)
WARNINGS: Some body horror under the cut, but otherwise it depends on you. Digging for Tony's secrets is still going to be a challenge here, so if you work for it I'll assume you want to see that nasty stuff. I'll update as necessary.
Update: Horny, as usual.

There is bright, dazzling light in the eye immediately upon entering this room, another door directly in front of the entrance peppered with bursts of camera flashes and roving spotlights illuminating the fine, gold silk drapes around the open frame, flashing through intricate, stained glass mosaics set into the stone flanking the entryway, and glinting off of the golden struts where a velvet rope had hung but had been knocked carelessly to the floor, an open invitation. Through it is a sweet-smelling party, packed with beautiful people in even more beautiful clothes, laughing among the sumptuous chime of crystal in a warm, welcoming hall. The wall stretching away from either side of it reaches almost to the extreme edges of the room, incrementally decaying from polished brickwork to raw, cracked stone, tumbling down into rubble that litters the way further into this room around the corner from the rich door.

This building the door is set into is just a wall from the other side, built up into a dark cave of that raw stone. Tony is pacing behind it, nowhere in the cave welcoming enough to sit or linger, jagged piles of scrap metal where there wasn't cold stone lining the walls and scattered in piles that would have to be carefully navigated to avoid sharp edges glinting readily to slice into ankles. The lone occupant isn't dressed nearly as charmingly as anyone at that party that would have been such a good time, his once white shirt wrinkled and tattered and rolled up to his elbows, open at the collar and liberally stained black down the front with whatever dripped from his hands, thick and dark like oil and charcoal. In one hand, coated in this viscous liquor, his ever restless fingers worked erratically and mercilessly over a dark knot. The sweet smell of the hall is long gone here, overtaken quickly by acid and whiskey and a bitter, sick smoke.

Set into the back of the wall, there is a computer monitor, spilling a soft blue glow across the stone floor with a constant generation of lines of code in an alien alphabet that Tony throws judgemental glances at as he paces back toward the front of the cave. Most of the light comes from the back of the room, though, the roof of the cave opening to a bright, blue sky, where soft clouds make a slow march across and birds wheel freely, well above the curl of smoke that whisped up out of the cave and dissipated.

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But can Tony be sure Jon wouldn't understand? He flinches a little when the faceplate hits his head, but blinks his eyes open the moment after, feeling the other man's hold on him loosen up enough for him to look up and - finally - look up at Iron Man.

He gives a smile, but then some people he isn't familiar with are around and Jon looks over at the tiny winged lady and then there is apparently Captain America and some guy with a life-sized version of the shield and another one. Maybe he should have given the comics Billy had given him a closer look.

Looking back up at Tony, though, Jon can't help but notice the tension building in him, armored or not. He lets go of the heart with one hand to put it over the one Tony holds onto the table with and simply nods, his voice turning into what he hopes to be a reassuring tone "Just let it play out. I'm here for it now." He just may be about to get to see some superhero action - And he won't complain.

It wasn't a particularly action-packed scene, and Tony didn't remember it so clearly because it was a hard won victory or left any regrettable scars. It just wasn't one he was used to sharing with anyone; he hardly told the people who moved as figments in this room what it had meant to him, and they probably didn't have to ask. He slide the hand on Jon's arm back up around his shoulders to tug him back into a hug, this one appreciative for the gesture, more careful with the hard metal edges and joints of the armor. It wasn't even a loud scene; Wasp hissed, "He isn't dead! He's breathing!", and it was easy to hear Iron Man suck in a sharp breath like he meant to try to explain, hand over Jon's shoulder going to a tight fist to try to gather his thoughts, but the shuddering gasp of the man that had already defined most of Tony's life and had been presumed dead for 70 years filled the space instead. Jon's heart had to do the flip for him, the shocked tension that drew Tony taught under his armor that day permeating this memory as Captain America opened his clear, blue eyes.

That was all there really was to the memory. Gone as slick and silent as it had come on, Tony was left back in his soiled clothes, staring still where the table had been, hand slipping down Jon's back apologetically. If it had been any longer, maybe he would have been able to hand the shield to Jon so he could really understand; those toys at the carnival and the silly patriotic colour scheme really couldn't convey what it was like to be in the room with him.

Well, no action at least means the memory isn't a dreadful one. Tony's very own anxiety over being revealed remains prominent enough and while it entirely falls into Jon's type of fear, it hardly appeals to him.

The memory fades and Jon could probably have slipped out of Tony's hold or started laying out all the questions he now has regarding this memory, but Tony's silence, the way he keeps looking where Captain America has been and the little gesture of his hand at Jon's back tell the Archivist to give the man a moment. He uses that moment to lean slightly into that arm still around him, wordlessly letting Tony know that Jon has no intention of letting him drop due to a little secret.

"You okay?" Is all he asks after a few moments, voice gentle.

Jon was still there, but the reminder only made Tony take a sharp breath, trying to come up with his excuse for neglecting to tell him one tiny, little detail about the history of the Avengers during his brief educational program. "Of course," he had to insist first, not about to give a different answer to that question even in this odious place, and focusing the slide of his arm to take Jon's shoulder instead. "I tell people he's my bodyguard, back home," he explained, with an expression to assure Jon that he was fully aware how flimsy that sounded. "The Avengers live in my house, everyone knows I made the suit, but..." A tap to his temple with his free hand, crazy like a fox. "I didn't even tell any of them," he indicated the now empty room for the figments in the memory, "for-- way too long. You know, I had this thing--" Jon already knew the important part of that story, the one that made Tony itch at his chest again, fingers sinking too far in to the void left there, making him take another breath before finishing like a defensive teenager justifying coming home so late, "I did already tell you most of this."

“I’m not mad.” Jon clarifies softly, moving his free hand up to brush it up Tony’s forearm. “Of course, I- I wish you had told me on your own accord, but... I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the visuals a little?”

He allows his words to settle. “So... Who were all these people? I... Think I recognized a few from the comics Billy donated to the library, but...” A little shrug. “Captain America, of course. And Iron Man.” Another shrug, this one paired with an almost innocent smile. “The one with the shield was... Thor? I think? Which makes you friends with Norse gods as well. Please correct me if I get anything wrong. I- I’m new to superheroes as you might remember.”

Of course Billy, incalculable power at his fingertips, made the most useless contribution to the library. They never even got Iron Man's roller skates right. "Thor," Tony agreed, with a nod to the place he had stood, but had to make one correction, "Not really a god. More like an alien. They're incredibly advanced, so when they made their appearance on Midgard, it was an easy mistake to make. But yes, big hammer, thunderbolts and lightning, whole thing-- I wouldn't be surprised if you've met an Asgardian yourself." He smiled then, obviously more at ease bragging about his friends-- and his friends being incomprehensibly smart, not just some god, was definitely a brag-- but sidled behind Jon to drape both arms around his shoulders where he could speak into his ear, safely at his back. Still pointing to where Thor was, he continued, "He was with the team from the start, brother's something of a pest, I think you can imagine, but..." He gave a small shrug, slouching a little more of his weight onto Jon's shoulders, "He's been...gone. For a while now. They don't really die, but, you know." He sniffed, flicking his gesture toward where the man had stood beside him. "Hank Pym. Lots of code names, but usually Ant-Man or Giant-Man. Absolutely brilliant scientist, discovered a subatomic particle that no one else can even get close to that allows him to alter mass. Basically magic, alters the laws of physics, but cooler. He and his gal, Wasp," another point, up in the air, "were also there from day one, and that little spitfire managed to keep us all under control enough to not be at each other's throats, she was the boss." He laced his hands together then, giving the same shrug. "Both of them have, uh, parted ways with the Avengers, recently. Hank is forming impressionable young minds in England, a single-size professor. They needed a break."

It’s an entirely different tone that Tony uses to talk about his fellow.... Avengers. A certain fondness. Maybe even.... Admiration? It’s a nice difference, however. None of the pain and hints of insecurities.

“They sound incredible.” Jon acknowledges with a little nod, his hand easily finding Tony’s clasped ones to add itself to the knot, gladly accepting the weight Tony put into his shoulders. And maybe he’s a little jealous, even. All these strong and brilliant people working together for a good cause. And Tony certainly fitted in well.

“Was there a reason why you built that suit of armor?” He asks in a conversational tone.

They were incredible, and Jon earned a noisy kiss to his hair for the only correct answer, Tony's hands untwining to welcome Jon's. That was not the correct question, though, making Tony's hands tense, thumbs tugging at each other restlessly. "Because I could," he said, clipped, and not untrue. That whole sordid tale was definitely somewhere in this cave; it permeated the whole structure. Tony slipped away, searching the floor around them, not sure if it was any worse to show Jon or try to explain it to him now, and kicking through the nearest pile of scornful junk that littered his brain. "I'd like to tell you it was altruism, to be a superhero, fight the good fight," he admitted with a small shake of his head, of course it wasn't that. "If you think I'm an asshole now, you should have seen me." The heap slid around to reveal a few items among the scrap: a jet injector, and a wiry pair of glasses.

The kiss to his head lures the tiniest noise out of the Archivist. A happy noise, though. That moment is much too short-lived, however, and Jon finds himself following Tony's movements around the place with his head and eyes.

He must be searching for another memory.

Tony's words are met with a small nod. They all change through time and experience. He himself has changed greatly ever since accepting the job as Head Archivist. And not solely in a monstrous way.

When Tony finds something among the scraps, Jon cautious walks over to crouch down next to the items with a frown, almost reaching for the injector, but rather looking up at Tony for approval "Do these belong together?"

"Ah..." Tony looked unsure, then slowly shook his head before turning to scout the other piles. The objects didn't make much sense together to him, and surely the memory of the mark 1 had to be attached to a landmine, the heart, even, something else-- "Maybe try that again?" he suggested, gesturing with some disapproval to the twisted knot Jon was still carrying around. There wasn't any other good reason for that.

Of course he's still carrying it around. Jon... Kind of likes it? Though he looks up at Tony first, then down at it, not entirely sure how to try that again. "...don't you think the memory might only replay?" He pauses, frowning. "Do these replay?" Not as far as his own experiences with them go. So, remaining where he is crouching, Jon holds the heart before him again and turns it around quizzically, lightly prodding it in some places as if searching for a button and scratching the tip of his finger over other spots almost as if to try tickling the thing.

Those were not questions Tony was in any way prepared to answer, making him spread his empty hands, he had nothing, with a shrug. If anything, this should have been Jon's territory to effectively dissect. Tony really hadn't meant for Jon to keep playing with the disembodied organ, making him wrinkle his nose and insist instead, a falsely cheery inversion, "Hey, maybe put that down," much preferring to completely ignore it if the alternative was watching Jon manhandle it until it oozed more of the thick, black gunk out of the ragged valves. That wasn't helpful. "You would really rather be doing that than showing off your dance moves?" Tony asked, pointing back toward the facade again, open invitation, anyone could stop being gross at any point and just have a good time.

Jon stops prodding the heart long enough to look back up at Tony, yet of course hesitates to put it down, even as he gives the other man a wry smile "Tony, that party back there..." He shakes his head. "That's several levels above my pay grade - And even farther above my... I don't know, what would you call it.... I... I really don't belong there." It feels false. Too false. That's not the part of society Jon has ever had to deal with and quite frankly never wanted to deal with. Can't Tony see that? Oh, he probably can.

Looking back down at the heart, Jon shakes his head and gives it a gentle pat "No. I- I prefer it here. This feels more real. And... I really can't dance, believe me." As he speaks, Jon glances between the heart, the glasses and the injector and tips his head to the side. "...maybe if we combine all three?"

And he shifts to kneel on the floor, putting the heart in his lap and reaching to pick up the other two items. Apparently it's time to experiment.

"But can Jonny d'Ville?" Tony teased then pressed his lips together, looking more hopeful than he felt that a comeback performance would be the key to distracting Jon out of his dark machinations. The expression was dropped and Tony slouched when it was clear that Jon was committed to solving what he saw was a puzzle. To the room, he wasn't wrong, the symbols flitting by on the monitor on the back of the facade interrupted by a glitch of interference as Jon's hands closed around the offered objects.

Grabbing both at once caused an earsplitting feedback loop, a vibrating squeal that was disorienting enough without the memories trying to offer both of their myriad of sensory experiences at once. For Jon, it was two simultaneous explosions, the piles of scrap bursting upward in fiery columns on either side of him, singing skin and shredding him with their cumulative shrapnel; the bones of his hand around the injector cracked then crushed, folding under enormous weight; mouth and nose and finally lungs filling with water as his vision blurred, submerged, then a yank on his hair to jerk his head back just in time to see a full sedan, screaming family inside staring down at him through the cracked windshield, before the weight of it crushed him to the floor.

As if to scold the feedback shriek, a soft voice interrupted the deathly dark, "Not so much with the noise, Mr. Stark." It was an older man, carefully learned accented English. "And not so much with the moving."

On the other side, another voice, this one a much younger woman, "Tony? Don't try to move."

Tony sat up, cross legged on a bed, these two figments on either side of him, the man in the glasses and the woman holding the injector, Tony's head in his hand and frowning at Jon. "This is different," he muttered. The scene still felt chaotic, an array of monitors behind Tony breaking down as they came closer to the old man, looking dusty and harassed, the mattress on that side of the bed soiled and peeling where it looked pristine closer to the woman, hovering anxiously in a crisp labcoat. Tony's gold undersuit, fabric and not the liquid spread of gold yet from the ports in his skin, was peeled down around his hips, leaving both of his figments staring at the blood-soaked bandages pressed over his heart.

There is no real time for Jon to respond to that question as from one moment to the next everything happens.

The initial loud noise makes him flinch, but what follows feels much rather as if the Stranger, the Desolation and the Vast teamed up with the Flesh and asked the Web for a map to descend down upon him, leaving the Archivist in a stunned silence while his senses slowly catch up with what is even going on and his mind stumbles over itself to try and make some sense of it.

Which, of course, is a trial in futility at best with most of these memories, but obviously bringing several together at once- Now this is where the terrible ideas begin and reason decides to take a lengthy trip to another country.

By the time Jon regains some of his focus all he can stare at is the sorrowful state of Tony's chest, his mouth moving as if he wants to ask a question, but failing remarkably to produce any coherent noises.

That was fine, because Tony had a question: "How did we go from, 'I won't touch anything', to going in, both barrels? You're something else, you know that?" Irritable again, Tony moved to slide from the bed to try to put this energy somewhere, and both of the people around him put up their hands in warning knowing exactly how much of a terrible idea that was. Tony choked, tasting blood from the shredded cavity of his chest, and dropped to his knees, where both the young woman and the old man frowned at him, unimpressed.

"Back to bed. Die in relative comfort at least," the man suggested.

In case that wasn't clear enough, Tony finally answered Jon's unwelcome question, slouched forward on one hand to wipe the other across his mouth, "I was dying."

"Tony, there's no way in hell you're going to survive an Extremis dose," the woman pointed out, and Tony gestured to her, only to tilt a flattened hand, not really one way or the other. Not dying like she was saying, that one was more complicated, but dying was involved.

Jon sputters a moment in flustered indignation, an irritated blush working its way onto his face "I- I literally told you how hard it is to resist for me and you still had to push this at me!" He defends himself despite feeling rather called out, holding up the black heart once again. Yes, in the end his curiosity has gotten the better of him, but Tony still had a hand in enabling him.

But any further complaints are caught in his throat when Tony drops to his knees, finally causing Jon to leave the lump of flesh behind to rush forward, crouching down before him and ready to help him up when the stranger's words catch his ears, pulling his attention that way before Tony's own words of confirmation drag Jon's focus back again. His heart gives a painful lurch at the words and one hand lands on Tony's upper arm while he gets a closer look at the wound before the woman speaks and whatever indignation and irritation has been there a moment earlier has already evaporated.

"...Jesus Christ."

Obviously Tony isn't going to die in this memory, but seeing him like that... It's still painful.

Tony wasn't too concerned about the sorry display, he had survived both times and doubted this would be the one that got him, and that was clear as he started to laugh with what strength he could muster as he rolled off of his knees to lean his back against the bed instead. "I don't remember you resisting that much," he smirked, blindly seeking that hand Jon had offered, sure any of those memories would be much more fun than the alloy Jon had found.

The old man, meanwhile, seemed ready to explain as Tony's wound caught Jon's eye, shuffling a little closer and leaning over the bed to offer to the pair on the ground, "There is a piece of shrapnel lodged next to your heart. I could not remove it."

That seemed as good a time as any for Tony to introduce, pointing up to him, the same way the man had described himself, "They have Ho Yinsen, the great medical innovator, for combat medicine."

Yinsen finished for him, "And now they have Anthony Stark, the great weaponeer. Luckily for you, your wound is fatal. You will be dead in a week. The shrapnel is moving. You will be slowly stabbed to death by a chunk of your own munition. Yinsen is not so lucky, for he is tougher than John Wayne's old boots and will live forever." He smiled at Jon pleasantly.

"'They' are a group of terrorists," Tony elaborated, "using weapons I created and someone graciously paid me a few billion for, to do this terrorizing and...capturing." He tapped his heart through the bandages and said, "Poetic irony, is that the right term? Whatever, I do math. What they wanted from me was to build them a weapon."

Yinsen helpfully provided, "If you try hard, you could perhaps make yourself die first."

Setting Tony's teasing - and not untrue - observation aside, Jon grasps the man's seeking hand, ready to pull him up when the stranger moves closer to practically loom over them, earning him a glare from the Archivist which lasts about as long until the man speaks and causes Jon to furrow his brow.

And then there is a lot once again. Maybe not a lot happening to flood his senses, but a lot of information thrown about, starting somewhere by Anthony, passing by a piece of shrapnel, a weaponeer, terrorists, billions?, the promise about a close death and something concerning John Wayne.

A lot, indeed.

Yinsen suggesting that Tony make an effort to die reboots the glare the man has received from Jon.

"What an unpleasant person." He mutters when he finally looks away from the man, then glances back up to the bed. "Let me help you up."

That glare wasn't going to work on Yinsen, Tony had tried already. It was Jon that received Yinsen's, "You are lucky to have me as your friend, whitey," which was funny now that it wasn't directed at Tony, making him snicker as he climbed back to his feet, clutching Jon and the bed until he could slouch against it.

"He is-- was one of the most brilliant scientists I've known," Tony corrected, which was starting to become something of a trend, he realized, and he paused to give the woman a glance with another breathy laugh. They would get there, too. He happened to rely on a lot of brilliant people. "He had this innovative way of helping land mine victims on Korea. Magnetic wound excision."

On cue, Yinsen said, "I cannot remove the shrapnel. It presses on your heart. There could be a rupture."

To both of them, Tony corrected, "Not remove it-- Hold it. Hold it in place, stop it working itself deeper. You're going to build a magnetic field generator into the chestplate of something that keeps me alive long enough to get both of us out of here. Because my work isn't finished yet."

Collapsing back on the bed where he could catch his breath, Tony glanced between the three of them, not sure where this was going to go next. "That was that time," he reported as Yinsen moved away and started to shift through a scrap heap himself, grumbling. "I got out of there. Yinsen didn't. Iron Man was born. And I lived in that chest plate--I hid that chestplate, for a lifetime. I couldn't tell anyone about it, and without it I was the walking dead. This is going a bit long, Maya, did you want to wrap this up, or...?"

The woman frowned at him, still unimpressed by the cavalier attitude. "One mistake and it will kill you," she said.

Following the explanations given by both men, Jon eventually stands next to Tony back in his bed, one hand lingering somewhere on Tony’s neatest arm. “...you sure challenge Death a lot.” He says, not without a little frown.

“So he helped you escape, saved your life and built that armor with you.” Jon tries to sum everything up, then looks over to the woman and the injector in her hand, risking an assumption “And she wants to inject you with....?” Something. Something that could have killed him.

Jon is starting to feel a lot less surprised by some of Tony’s more recent decisions.

"Extremis is a super-soldier solution," Maya answered. "It's a bio-electronics package, fitted into a few billion graphic nanotubes and suspended in a carrier fluid.

"It hacks the body's repair centre-- the part of the brain that keeps a complete blueprint of the human body. When we're injured, we refer to that area of the brain in order to heal properly."

"This may not have been my most lucid decision," Tony admitted while Maya went ahead with her work. "I was bleeding internally, my whole hand was shattered and at that point I had the suit injecting me with painkillers. But I was so slow. The armor was incredibly heavy, and the response time was falling further and further behind every fight I took on. I needed to become Iron Man inside and out. I didn't just need to grow new organs, I needed to grow new connections."

Maya moved to grab him roughly by the head, suddenly not concerned about the wounds with the bandaging gone, not a mark on Tony betraying any of this damage, checking his pupil dilation while Tony frowned at her and she said, "This is way too fast."

"I made a few alterations to your program," Tony replied, patting his chest and already missing the smooth, new skin the Extremis injection had left him with. "Sorry," he offered to Jon, sitting up again, "this is way more than anyone needs to know. Your version is way better. She helped me escape, saved my life, and built the armor of the future with me."

Jon’s hand doesn’t leave Tony’s arm, rather squeezes it a little as he follows what else unfolds. Maybe it is more than anyone needs to know, but he is glad they he does get to watch these memories. And he doesn’t bother to hide it from his face, in fact, hardly manages to hold back a relieved little chuckle.

“You made a choice, Tony. You made the choice to life - And become something else.” Jon breaks is down to even more basic pieces and leans forward to lean his forehead against Tony’s shoulder, effectively hiding his face “We made the same choice.” And neither of them for purely selfless reasons. Which makes Jon feel better in some ways.

Tony gladly shifted to wrap his arm around Jon and hug him against his shoulder, gaze darting between Maya and Yinsen for a beat before using the hold as leverage to pull himself from the bed. It wasn't clear how this mixed memory was supposed to end, but Tony didn't want to subject Jon to the mayhem that followed either of these conversations. Very little of any of these memories were as important to Tony as the people who helped form them, though, so it was as though the scene was never there by the time he had his feet on the ground, leaving them standing in the dark cave surrounded by unmoved piles of scrap metal, where the language on the monitor at Tony's back looked less alien. Without the memory to suppress it, the room was practically suffused with the feeling of Tony's sheer panic, enough to make him squeeze his fists biting tight to stop them from trembling, and he tried a tight smile nevertheless to mumble as casually as he could, "Oh, now you're a superhero."

Jon snorts faintly at the question, but at the same time shakes his head, mumbling "I still wouldn't say that-" Though he doesn't get much further.

Having noticed the new shift in their surroundings, Jon has peered around first, then up at Tony as he picks up on that practically suffocating amount of dread filling the space as well as the tremors and tension of the other man. Stepping directly in front of Tony, Jon reaches up both his hands to place them on either side of Tony's face, a type of concerned determination on his face. "Tony. Look at me, please. Look at me and- Let me help you."

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in_extremis - 2020-06-16 18:19 (UTC) - Expand

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beholding_archivist - 2020-06-16 18:38 (UTC) - Expand

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