The poor guy stood in pretty much the same spot and posture Tony had left him a day, which wasn't awkward at all. At least he got out of bed, though. Tony was beginning to get worried.
(Who was he kidding. He had been worried this whole time, asking Jarvis if he was still sleeping - and then still breathing - far too fucking often. But no one needed to know that.)
"Hey, um. Sorry to wake you, but you were sleeping for 16 hours, so... Which is fine! It's totally fine. I bet you're exhausted after... uh... everything. Yeah."
This was going so well.
The man didn't talk. Again. He just stood there, body in attention and eyes to the floor. He never answered. They still didn't know if he even spoke English.
"So, uh, let's sit? On the coach?"
His charge (God, he had a charge now) took a moment, but then nodded – without rising his head, no, can't have that, can we – and then turned and swiftly walked to the coach. Then stood there and waited.
Which wasn't awkward at all.
God, Tony wished he had something other than a food tray in his hands. It was really inhibiting his fidgeting here.
Right. He took the few steps to the little coach nook further in the room. It's meant to immitate a home, some interior designer told him when he was nervous and micro-managing Avenger living spaces before inviting them to stay. Shielded a little from the otherwise spacious room, so that people who grew up in poverty and barracks, and/or on the run in third world countries, could find it cosy and comfortable. Tony wasn't an expert in cosy, or comfortable for that matter, more used to lavish and photo-opy, but he understood the desire. He knew what it was like to want to hide.
He put the damn tray on the small table between them. "You can sit, you know. It's your coach." His charge – again, fuck, he had a charge now – only sat after he sat. But he did sit, so maybe that was progress.
"Name's Tony. Did I say that before?" He forcibly kept himself from babbling. English. And also, slave. That you bought. Keep it simple. My name is Tony.
Silence.
Silence.
"Tony. Yes, sir."
Right. Well that was... something. Is this what shell-shock looks like? Tony was starting to think that maybe Cap would be better for this. It wasn't like he expected they'd hit it off in some buddy-buddy cheerful manner, but he did think there would be something, like maybe an introduction.
"...do you have a name?"
He immediately wanted to kick himself. Wow, way to go, Stark, not dehumanising at all, why don't you ask him if he is a person while you're at it--
"No, sir."
Tony blinked. Fuck. "...do you want one?"
"No, sir."
Fuck again.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Tony wasn't cut out for this, he was the worst person to choose for this, he kind of wanted to flee the room--
"Are you alright, sir?"
His charge was frowning, just slightly, eyes still somewhere around his shoulder and to the left of him, but mouth clearly unhappy. There was genuine concern in his voice.
He pulled himself together. He wasn't going to run from this. The man couldn't run - literally, fuck-- – so Tony wouldn't either. This was the first display of any emotion or intent the man have, and it was for him, which was probably fucked up six ways till Sinsay, and Tony was going to respect that.
God, his therapist was going to have a field day with this.
"Yes. I, uh, I brought you some food. Would you like to eat?"
Come to think of it, Man might benefit from some therapy too. If he talked. Fuck.
He pushed the tray to Man's side (he only now noticed he had put it gob-smacked in the middle of them, fucking idiot, no wonder Man hasn't reached for it--) with an unholy screech.
Man looked down on it, looking slightly puzzled. Still not teaching, and Tony had another minor panic attack when he realised that he didn't know if his charge knew how to use a fork--
Man took up his utensils and ate with impossible grace.
It reminded Tony again that they really didn't know anything at all about this man. But then, his charge smiled, and for a moment Tony thought that everything was going to be okay.
Fill, part 7: Slavery AU with the Avengers
The poor guy stood in pretty much the same spot and posture Tony had left him a day, which wasn't awkward at all. At least he got out of bed, though. Tony was beginning to get worried.
(Who was he kidding. He had been worried this whole time, asking Jarvis if he was still sleeping - and then still breathing - far too fucking often. But no one needed to know that.)
"Hey, um. Sorry to wake you, but you were sleeping for 16 hours, so... Which is fine! It's totally fine. I bet you're exhausted after... uh... everything. Yeah."
This was going so well.
The man didn't talk. Again. He just stood there, body in attention and eyes to the floor. He never answered. They still didn't know if he even spoke English.
"So, uh, let's sit? On the coach?"
His charge (God, he had a charge now) took a moment, but then nodded – without rising his head, no, can't have that, can we – and then turned and swiftly walked to the coach. Then stood there and waited.
Which wasn't awkward at all.
God, Tony wished he had something other than a food tray in his hands. It was really inhibiting his fidgeting here.
Right. He took the few steps to the little coach nook further in the room. It's meant to immitate a home, some interior designer told him when he was nervous and micro-managing Avenger living spaces before inviting them to stay. Shielded a little from the otherwise spacious room, so that people who grew up in poverty and barracks, and/or on the run in third world countries, could find it cosy and comfortable. Tony wasn't an expert in cosy, or comfortable for that matter, more used to lavish and photo-opy, but he understood the desire. He knew what it was like to want to hide.
He put the damn tray on the small table between them. "You can sit, you know. It's your coach." His charge – again, fuck, he had a charge now – only sat after he sat. But he did sit, so maybe that was progress.
"Name's Tony. Did I say that before?" He forcibly kept himself from babbling. English. And also, slave. That you bought. Keep it simple. My name is Tony.
Silence.
Silence.
"Tony. Yes, sir."
Right. Well that was... something. Is this what shell-shock looks like? Tony was starting to think that maybe Cap would be better for this. It wasn't like he expected they'd hit it off in some buddy-buddy cheerful manner, but he did think there would be something, like maybe an introduction.
"...do you have a name?"
He immediately wanted to kick himself. Wow, way to go, Stark, not dehumanising at all, why don't you ask him if he is a person while you're at it--
"No, sir."
Tony blinked. Fuck. "...do you want one?"
"No, sir."
Fuck again.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Tony wasn't cut out for this, he was the worst person to choose for this, he kind of wanted to flee the room--
"Are you alright, sir?"
His charge was frowning, just slightly, eyes still somewhere around his shoulder and to the left of him, but mouth clearly unhappy. There was genuine concern in his voice.
He pulled himself together. He wasn't going to run from this. The man couldn't run - literally, fuck-- – so Tony wouldn't either. This was the first display of any emotion or intent the man have, and it was for him, which was probably fucked up six ways till Sinsay, and Tony was going to respect that.
God, his therapist was going to have a field day with this.
"Yes. I, uh, I brought you some food. Would you like to eat?"
Come to think of it, Man might benefit from some therapy too. If he talked. Fuck.
He pushed the tray to Man's side (he only now noticed he had put it gob-smacked in the middle of them, fucking idiot, no wonder Man hasn't reached for it--) with an unholy screech.
Man looked down on it, looking slightly puzzled. Still not teaching, and Tony had another minor panic attack when he realised that he didn't know if his charge knew how to use a fork--
Man took up his utensils and ate with impossible grace.
It reminded Tony again that they really didn't know anything at all about this man. But then, his charge smiled, and for a moment Tony thought that everything was going to be okay.