He had read the reports, but he hadn't really thought about it beyond the promise of the thing, the potential.
Tony is trying his hardest not to cry. Actually, the opposite of that, maybe he's trying to cry, or move, or blink, or something. Maybe wipe the liquid that's dribbling from his ear down the side of his cheek, into his mouth. He can't taste it, but he can feel the pressure of it, the liquid, heavy against the crease of his lips.
Between struggling to move and struggling to breath, he struggles to forget the images of the test rats: the white of their fur stained red from the burst capillaries in their ears.
"Listen to me, Tony. We're a team, you understand?"
Obie's seated beside him, on the bed, one leg stretched out alongside Tony's left, the other still dangling against the floor. He's loosening a tie with one hand, but the other rests in the space between his thigh and Tony's torso. Tony can see the fingers of his right hand, drumming, drumming, drumming.
He's not even sure he's breathing anymore, and the liquid has touched his tongue and he finds that he can taste it: metallic and warm. Remembers, again.
"No more of this ready, aim and fire business. Next time you've got something like this," Reaching across Tony's still form, Obie pulls the little silver thing from Tony's now lax grip, "You come to me. You got that?" He doesn't look to Tony for a confirmation, doesn't seem to care and Tony tries for some semblence of control once more.
Fails.
Obie is still looking at the thing, and Tony can see from the corner of his left eye (he can't blink. why can't he blink. this wasn't in the reports. this wasn't-), the upturn of his lip, Obie's version of a smile, "You lucked out this time, but it's not going to be simple. We still have particulars to think about."
He rolls the device between his thumb and forefinger, like its a cigar, and he's watching Tony now, watching Tony try to blink, try and fail.
"You can't just build this thing in a warehouse, you know, if we do this, if we follow your line of thinking." At "line" Obie lowers the device until it touches the side of Tony's cheek. If it had really been a cigar, his cheek would be a mess of roasted flesh and ash by now, but it's not and the metal is solid and cool against his skin.
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Tony is trying his hardest not to cry. Actually, the opposite of that, maybe he's trying to cry, or move, or blink, or something. Maybe wipe the liquid that's dribbling from his ear down the side of his cheek, into his mouth. He can't taste it, but he can feel the pressure of it, the liquid, heavy against the crease of his lips.
Between struggling to move and struggling to breath, he struggles to forget the images of the test rats: the white of their fur stained red from the burst capillaries in their ears.
"Listen to me, Tony. We're a team, you understand?"
Obie's seated beside him, on the bed, one leg stretched out alongside Tony's left, the other still dangling against the floor. He's loosening a tie with one hand, but the other rests in the space between his thigh and Tony's torso. Tony can see the fingers of his right hand, drumming, drumming, drumming.
He's not even sure he's breathing anymore, and the liquid has touched his tongue and he finds that he can taste it: metallic and warm. Remembers, again.
"No more of this ready, aim and fire business. Next time you've got something like this," Reaching across Tony's still form, Obie pulls the little silver thing from Tony's now lax grip, "You come to me. You got that?" He doesn't look to Tony for a confirmation, doesn't seem to care and Tony tries for some semblence of control once more.
Fails.
Obie is still looking at the thing, and Tony can see from the corner of his left eye (he can't blink. why can't he blink. this wasn't in the reports. this wasn't-), the upturn of his lip, Obie's version of a smile, "You lucked out this time, but it's not going to be simple. We still have particulars to think about."
He rolls the device between his thumb and forefinger, like its a cigar, and he's watching Tony now, watching Tony try to blink, try and fail.
"You can't just build this thing in a warehouse, you know, if we do this, if we follow your line of thinking." At "line" Obie lowers the device until it touches the side of Tony's cheek. If it had really been a cigar, his cheek would be a mess of roasted flesh and ash by now, but it's not and the metal is solid and cool against his skin.
It calms him, but only just.