clopen.

[propulsion]

WHO: Tony Stark and the Ironettes, and some of my other guys.
WHAT: Business as usual, probably.
WHEN: Just generally Justinian
WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall, etc.
NOTES: Some open prompts in the post for any and all, but also a gathering place for some specific starters.

Nightmares are just another excuse to join the insomnia brigade, a disparate club of people constellated around the Gallows, lit rooms, lit hearths. Nowadays (nowanights?), Tony often takes himself and his restless hands out of his private quarters, now that he has a full human woman to share personal space with and she might not appreciate the sounds of tinkering and miscellaneous farting around one wall over.

So his colleagues might find him in the peace room, drinking coffee at stupid o'clock and going over paperwork, or those who know him well might hear the sounds of clicking tools being worked and set down again in the Research work spaces, where it is much too dark to see by the single candle he has going, but that's what enchanted sunglasses are for.

During the day, he is:
- jogging, sometime past dawn, stairmastering down the tower and then running a circuit through the expansive courtyards, and then out towards the docks, before the day has a shot at getting unbearably hot and sticky;
- chained to his desk to make himself, you know, available, some paperwork stacked at his elbow while he desperately seeks some dopamine by carefully folding a paper airplane instead;
- clattering a plate of pizza down on a taken table in the dining hall, and while it's a little lopsided, it is at it promises to be, melted cheese and flat circles of meat, everything sliced into slices;
- at the training grounds where the archery range is set up, wearing some light-weight leather armor and a more elaborate gauntlet, with articulated loops around the wrist he is adjusting. "You know the story of William Tell?" he says, positioned not where the archers are, but standing amongst the dummies, which should probably be some kind of sign. "Me neither, but probably worked out okay." He readies a defensive stance. "Hit me."

Comments

[propulsion]

"Classified," Tony echoes, like maybe the concept of 'classified' hasn't been invented yet in Richard's world. "There's this box in my office labelled 'elf stuff', which I used when I was Felandaris for research notes no one cared about, so it's a perfect disguise for anything we need on record but don't want just anybody reading. And that's where this is gonna go. You got ink on your face."

Is that true? Impossible to say, when Tony isn't wearing anything very reflective and they are eyeballing each other.

"Is Mr. Gecko walking around with an arm covered in eyeballs?"

[nonvenomous]

…

Genuine pause flickers into a knit at his brow for the possibility of smudged ink, and further -- the possibility of having to clutch for a reflective surface to confirm while Tony looks on. Two seconds pass. Three.

His cat trots into the room, leans to goggle at him, and ghosts out again without him having to break eye contact.

“The growth sloughed off within a few hours of the initial experiment,” Dickerson continues, as if there’d been no pause at all. He resumes wringing the rag between his fingers also, the faintly damp mass of it flopped down onto the counter beside him.

“No trace of exposure left behind.”

[propulsion]

There's just a lot of ink, is all, probably staining through to the other side of the parchment with all that focused scribbling. Tony holds Dickerson's focus through the weird few seconds, ignorance of cats, considering this pivot to helpfulness in the wake of peevish dismissals and pearl-clutches over his ~interest~. He can handle a weirdo.

And people that don't like him. Richard is still a difficult read when his ears aren't turning red.

"Sounds gooey," Tony says. "So, what comes next, doc?"

[nonvenomous]

“Yes,” says Richard, with the same absence of affect. As a matter of fact it was gooey.

Divested of his rag and of anything better to do with his ink-stained-but-unlikely-to-smudge hands in Stark’s presence, he folds his arms.

“It will be difficult to gauge the implications of Mr. Gecko’s reaction without repeating the experiment on other Rifters."

[propulsion]

"Mhm."

Without levering his weight out of his lean, Tony brings up a hand to start ticking his fingers off. "No rifters without at least three months of being here under their belts," item one. "Which is still not ideal, but nabbing someone out of the gate was unacceptable, so we're not doing that anymore."

Item two: "You need written approval, by me, before anything goes ahead. It's not gonna be hard to get, so don't get squirrely."

Item three: "Approval depends on meeting that first criteria, and you and-or Wysteria can outline the procedure and what you're looking to find."

He hovers his finger over a possible item four, but his hands drop once hooked as he adds, "And I told Wysteria I had dibs on being a lab rat anyway, so we can kind of circumvent some of that, but I'm gonna hold off until she gets back to town. No offense."

His hands splay. "Capisce?"

[nonvenomous]

‘Nabbing’ someone out of the gate was both necessary under the circumstances and effective -- a sentiment written plain in his unspoken shade for item one. Open refusal to be sorry hardens in the hood of his brow and the crook of his mouth; it settles like compost in his silence through items two and three. Unpleasant.

Cats warned off clawing furniture have the same look.

But displeasure isn’t argument and there’s no underlying appetite to threaten imminent disaster gnawing behind his folded arms. He hasn’t been eager to trifle without a partner in crime anyway, seldom seen about the project offices while Wysteria’s been away.

Still: some offense taken.

“I don’t know what that means.”

[propulsion]

Tony, who has been subject to a lot of I don't know what that means of varying degrees of dislike, exasperation, and fondness throughout the past three years (and, let's be honest, even longer), turns his hands out in a shrug.

"Rifter lingo," he says. "So annoying, right? Someone oughta tell us."

And hands come together in a clap, the tops of his prayer-hands pointing at Richard. "Good meeting, thanks for making the time. I'll let Wysteria know what we just talked about, only I'll probably do it nicer due to favouritism. Is there anything you needed, while I'm here?"

[nonvenomous]

A huffed sigh sinks at his shoulders, stirs the bristles of his mustache.

This is the best he can muster for pointed prayer hands and lampshaded preference, some rusty, arthritic distaste crippling any hope for appreciation of a well-targeted dig. PROFESSIONAL FAVORITISM IS NOT A JOKE, TONY.

“I'd like Riftwatch to invest in higher quality medical stores to better prepare us for emergency procedures."

[propulsion]

"Sure,"

sounds real. "Make a list and I'll check the budget. Oh," interrupts his own pivoting away, prolonging everything by just a few more seconds as Tony turns a gesture on his wrist, "and before we get into the rainy seasons, we should probably make sure everyone's up to date with the latest in disease and illness hygiene procedures. Wouldn't want us to lapse back into the Dark Ages, again, some more.

"Bye now," and he's off.