"You said it would be simple," Clint says, and there are vehement tears threatening at the edges of his words, pulling heavily on his anger. "You said it would be easy. You lied.”
Tony’s trying to take Clint’s arms, trying to use touch to soothe, but Clint hits them away, struggles out of his grasp.
“I didn’t lie, babe,” Tony says, and there’s anguish
there, guilt and a note of pleading. “I just —— I just
mis-judged. This isn’t over yet, Clint, just give me
another chance.”
"Why, what are you gonna fuck up this time?" Clint demands.
It still hurts. His eyes ache, like they’ve been straining to
see for hours. The darkness, though, that remains, a
little darker in one eye than in the other.
“I can fix it,” Tony says. “There’s a certain amount of
risk associated with any invasive medical procedure,
but I can fix if if you’ll just—”
"Fix it," Clint laughs. "You can’t be a mechanic for people, Tony! When the hell are you gonna learn that you break people? Go ahead, try and put me back together like you did with Dummy.
But it won’t work. People aren’t cars. People
aren’t robots. You can’t fix people, Tony. You
can’t fix anything.”
And he just stood there, each word impacting like a fist, rocking him until he swayed slightly in punctuation, each derisive phrase a hammer on the pitted anvil of memory.
The words were different, but the intent behind them was similar enough to leave bile rising in the back of his throat, to compel a helpless feeling so immersive he felt as though he couldn't breathe for a few moments, his vision dimming, leading him back down a dark road he only visited unwillingly, and when exceedingly inebriated.
What else could he do? It wasn't like Clint was wrong, after all. He did break things. Machines, people. They really weren't so different, in the grand scheme of things. Creation required experimentation, and things rarely went perfectly on the first iteration. But his lover wasn't a machine, and he'd been knocked down too many times to appreciate any platitudes about uncertainty analysis or environmental effects.
He was way too sober for this conversation.
"I'm aware you're not a robot," Tony replied quietly, carefully, as though any variation in tone might spill what the words restrained. "As shocking as it might be, I don't actually conduct romantic relationships with inorganics as a habit. But this is a developmental technique, babe. You're the first, and I'm sorry, I'm not perfect. In case you were somehow still under that misconception after knowing me longer than five minutes."
The other man had pulled away, and stood just out of reach, tension screaming from every line of his body, and Tony allowed his hands to drop back by his sides, his expression a convoluted melding of reproach and regret.
"I know it sucks, god, I know, but turning on each other won't solve anything... we can get through this. Please. Just look at me."
