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[ingeniar]

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USERNAME: STARK

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@strange

[rehandle]

[ He's thinking of asking nicely, when he first thinks to ask at all. Asking for a lesson, to sit down and be taught how to lure shapes out of wood, an hour of peace to cover over the rot of what he's really doing.

But the only thing that can really make this worse is a lie. ]

Will you show me your whittling tools?

I'd like a tour of the smithy after, if you have time.

[ He doesn't apologise. If all this is as much nothing to worry about as every second thought he has demands of him it must be, then there's nothing to apologise for. Simple process of elimination. He thinks Tony will understand. ]

[ingeniar]

You going to frisk me, doc?

[rehandle]

[ Or maybe not. ]

Tony.

[ingeniar]

I thought we ruled me out. Pretty sure I remember everyone telling me I was an idiot for saying it.

[rehandle]

You stood up without a scrap of evidence. What did you think was going to happen?

[ingeniar]

[ Give him a few moments to bite down on the frustration, the tiredness, the fact that it's not Stephen's fault. He looks down at his hands, flecks of black on his fingers, leftover scraps from oracle symbols like iron filings under his skin. ]

Come over when you want.

[rehandle]

[ It's worse that Tony's taking it badly - not because that in itself is hard, but because it's one less person who thinks that he's wrong. He doesn't want to go. But they have to do this. They have to know. ]

On my way.

[ He isn't long. Arrives tense in every way that's obvious, the hand not bunched in a fist around his phone stuffed into his pocket. Himself the hostile party by default of what he's asking of him, he lets Tony set the tone. ]

[ingeniar]

[ The man who meets him is unhappy, but resigned. He's been here before -- Sokovia, New York, the Accords. The journey to Titan. Well aware that bad choices, painful choices, are all they have left. They might have had a chance, once, to avoid this. But they've moved beyond it. Now they just have to deal with what's in front of them. The job of the futurist.

So he's silent, but he willingly unrolls the leather case of whittling tools he's begged and borrowed from the populace. He stands back to let Stephen look at them. When he's done, he grabs his coat and makes for the door and the short walk to the smithy on the other side of town.

In the cold air, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. Doesn't quite look directly at Stephen. ]

How's it working out for you, being Sherlock Holmes?

[rehandle]

[ Stephen's careful with his observation of the tools: thinking of dull blades cutting through coarse flesh, thinking of pumpkins hollowed out and carved, thinking of a little chess piece shedding sawdust as expert hands made finishing touches. Mostly, though, it gives him the chance not to meet Tony's eye.

When they're done, he follows quietly. Can't summon any outward suggestion of the laugh at his own expense that blooms inside him with Tony's question. ]

Yeah. [ Not an answer - acknowledgement of everything unsaid. He knows. He knows. ] About as well as it's working out for you.

[ Stephen playing detective, walking together toward another investigation, Tony caught under a spotlight they'd both rather turn off. ]