“This isn’t helping,” she repeated. She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re tearing yourself apart.”
And sensing it was tearing her apart.
“Tony … ” Daring, a little bit. “Will you talk to me?”
And now it was a one.
He jerked away from the hand on his shoulder, though not so much to stand up. No, that would draw too much attention, and that was not something he needed at the moment.
“Look. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but cut it out. It’s not going to work. And no, I am not going to talk to you about it. Dead men don’t talk.”
The last part had just slipped out, but it was too late to take it back now. He didn’t look at her, because he knew if he did he’d feel like shit and then he might actually want to talk about it, and that was most definitely not something he needed. His fingers were already beginning to itch and he was in absolutely no mood to have any kind of fit out in the open.
No. No, he just needed to breathe.
Mildly, “Ow.”
Dead men. What?
That made her angry. What right did he have to wallow, in public no less? /She/ wasn’t allowed to wallow. Depression, fine, okay, “Grow /up/. You’re in pain. Fine. Are you going to keep acting the child about it, or be an adult and /do/ something about it?”
She gritted her teeth. “You need to come with me. Mr Stark.”