IDK if anyone actually listens to the title songs but this one's been in my head for a week help.
If "F" is for feeling overwhelmed
And "I" is for "I'm not alright"
If "N" is for not being able to sleep
"E" for every night
— Fine by Kyle Hume
Tony grunts in annoyance while reaching carefully with his unoccupied right hand for the soldering iron without looking away from the damaged internal port he was attempting to reattach. He registers a small movement out of the corner of his eye and his hand finally closes around the tool's handle, "Thanks DUM-E," he mutters distractedly, focusing on the task at hand.
It's only once he's good to stop holding the port down with the tweezers that his brain seems to catch up to his environment, making him look away from the open panel on the back of the deactivated android's neck and hurriedly tap one of his Bluetooth earbuds to pause the music – most of his favorites thankfully still extant in this reality – at the sight of the girl standing by the table with her arms crossed.
She's pouting, or something close to it, though he's not sure why. "I know I'm not as smart as you Mr. Carbonell but why the name-calling?"
"Sorry, what?" He asks, not sure what she's talking about.
"You called me dummy," She elaborates, brows rising.
"I didn't- uh," he tries not to tense when the realization finally hits him. For a moment there, somehow, he forgot he wasn't at home, tinkering with a project in his private lab with occasional assistance from the bots. Huh. "wasn't aimed at you, Dora."
The girl – who is actually called Sofia but asked out loud about the location of things enough to sound like the children's cartoon character – only rolls her eyes at the nickname. "Good, 'cause I'd only call a dummy someone who was, I don't know, maybe trying to grab a hot iron barehanded without looking," she replies with a pointed look.
"Touché," he has to give her that one, even if he hadn't exactly planned to be unable to move from the damaged internal port until it was fixed. "Did you need something? Other than a reminder to call me Tony."
It comes out less pointedly than usual, the teasing lackluster at best when most of his thoughts are circling around having accidentally thanked DUM-E when Sofia nudged the tool closer to him. He should have known it wasn't his bot, it's not as if he's not completely aware of his situation, he ran out of denial during the first couple of months and settled into resignation after six, or so he'd thought.
"Mama taught me to respect my elders," she quips back with a smirk. She's only thirteen years younger than him, working part-time at the repair center while finishing some degree he'd been too distracted to hear about at the time and never asked about again but is definitely not anything related to engineering. "Just finished my shift, it looked like you needed a hand."
"Already?" he glances at the screen on his left, ignoring the data on the screen provided by the wireless connection to the android, and sees that it's ten past nine p.m. and Sofia's likely just finished closing up the store. That means he's been fixing the damaged android since the start of the girl's shift four hours ago. "Right. Thanks."
Sofia doesn't seem to hear the implied dismissal, only staring at him for a long moment before speaking, "You alright, Tony?"
Not really, he thinks to himself. I haven't been alright for a while, is the full and honest answer. "Just tired. Off you go, only one of us has classes in the morning and it's not me Miss Garcia," is what actually leaves his mouth.
She hesitates for a moment – and either the mystery major is psychology or she's just that good at reading people – before nodding and heading to the bathroom to change out of her uniform. Tony can't really focus enough to go back to work so he settles for stalling until she's out, hair released from the tidy work bun and some new floral monstrosity in place of the sterile white uniform. She spares him a smile and a soft "goodnight" on her way out, closing the door silently behind herself and leaving him alone with his thoughts – a historically bad idea.
Tony likes to think he's been managing just fine, especially after finishing a couple of courses – the ones he actually had to study for instead of simply granting himself the certificate due to already knowing the subject – and finding himself a job as an android technician. Sure, it took a little longer than expected to get a firm grasp of the most recent technological innovations and launch into a couple of more thorough studies, but he'd eventually passed the necessary certifications and found himself a job on a moderately sized android repair and resale shop. He'd finished the stock algorithms for both short and long-term gain and had a comfortable flow of money entering his bank account, enough to recently get himself out of the shady side of the Bronx and into an apartment in Manhattan with a Central Park view and much closer to his current workplace. He's comfortable, kept busy, and is slowly gathering the funds to allow a little more freedom of research into subjects such as how the hell he's ended up in another universe entirely.
None of that, it seems, is enough to keep his chest from constricting at the wave of nostalgia the earlier mix-up had dredged up from the sea of borderline apathy he's been drowning in for the last few months. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, he knows the tides and how to keep his head above water, how to be productive while feeling like nothing really matters much, and even though it's nearly been a year since the last time he'd felt this way, sinking into it feels like slipping into a comfortably worn pair of clothes. Maybe that's why the sudden homesickness burns a little stronger than expected, making his body tense and his hands clammy.
He wipes his palms on the sides of his pants and proceeds to do what he does best and ignore his feelings while drowning himself in work.
"Alright," Tony huffs and ignores that it comes out slightly tremulous, closing the android's neck panel and watching it seamlessly blend into the remaining white chassis. The android on the table – whom he was informed is named Frank – is an HK400, a household assistance model launched two years ago, and according to the owner had been attacked by protesters while coming back from a grocery run. He's not inclined to doubt the information, especially since he'd seen the owner drop the android off, a frail-looking old lady who didn't look as if she could hurt a fly even if she wanted to and the amount of damage he's had to fix in the past four hours speaks of blunt-force trauma.
He lightly pats the deactivated android's shoulder, "You should be good to go… but one last check won't hurt." It's an easy task when one is a technician and the android is connected to a computer, similar to how deactivating their synthskin works, and with a couple of entered commands he watches the opaque white chassis slowly become see-through. He could keep the androids out of stasis and ask them to enter diagnosis mode themselves, but that wasn't quite possible with the damage this particular one had taken.
There doesn't seem to be any more visible damage and the welds he's had to make look to be holding up, standing against the clear chassis in a silvery parody of scars, their transparency unaltered by the command. They shouldn't give the android any trouble unless he's hit in the same exact place again, but by the worry he remembers seeing in the owner's eyes, he doubts Frank will be going out unaccompanied any time soon.
Good for him.
"Time to wake up, buddy." He mutters, returning the chassis to its usual glossy white and reactivating the synthskin a moment later. The welding points aren't visible once the polymer skin fully covers the chassis, doing away with the appearance of scars, and Tony absently wishes he could do something similar about his own. He launches a final, full-system check through the computer and watches as the android's LED blinks a slow yellow for a couple of minutes before fading into a calm blue as the computer screen reports the lack of anomalies in his system.
Exiting the diagnosis program, he activates a temporary limb lock – something he's learned is necessary from experience – before sending the command for the android to exit stasis mode. Frank's LED pulses blue a couple of times before his eyes open, immediately finding his. Tony sees the android's mouth twitch before falling still and doesn't doubt that, without his limbs locked, he may have stood up as soon as he exited stasis.
"Hi there. You were damaged while out," Tony explains, maybe unnecessarily. "I've just finished repairing you. Can you tell me your name, the current date and time, and your owner's name?"
"My name is Frank," there's a small rasp to the android's voice but it seems to slowly vanish as he continues speaking. "The date is November 17th, 2032. The current time is nine-thirty p.m. and my registered owner is Isabella Jones."
"Huh? That's not…" Tony frowns slightly and moves over to the screen opening the repair request form and checking the name on it.
"I was purchased by Isabella Jones," Frank seems to think he should elaborate, "but I reside with her mother, Elizabeth."
"Should've checked that earlier," Tony mutters in annoyance at the confusion but the name Elizabeth Jones does match the one of the old lady who'd brought the android over. "Alright then," he removes the lock on the android's limbs, "can you stand?"
Frank replies by hopping off the table and to his feet. "Yes, sir."
"Call me Tony, 'sir' makes me feel old," He informs the android, pacing in a half circle around him in a final assessment before patting his bare arm, "Yep, all seems to be in order. Go into the top left cabinet and grab yourself a spare uniform, then change in the bathroom. Those pants go in the trashcan."
"Yes, Tony. Thank you," the android immediately moves to obey.
It's still a little unnerving, the unwavering obedience. He's gotten over everything else, which wasn't as difficult as expected once he learned that an android's physiology is only passingly similar to a human's and has more than enough differences to keep him from turning away from it like he usually does the more squishy sciences. Still, anything human-looking acting so damn agreeable just feels weird to witness.
Or maybe I'm just that contrary.
Frank comes back a couple of minutes later, once again clad in the proper Cyberlife uniform, its price always included in the repairs if their previous clothes sustained enough damage.
"Everything feels good? No errors popping up?" Tony asks one final time.
"None, everything is in working order," the android informs, and they stand awkwardly – at least for Tony – for a few moments before he adds, "When will I be returned to Beth?"
"Ah, I'll tell the morning clerk to let her know you're ready for pick-up," He informs, already pulling a chair over to the table and sitting down to compose that e-mail.
"I am capable of making my way to her home unaccompanied," Frank points out after another momentary silence.
"Yeah, sure, but she insisted," Tony absently informs as he fills up the repair report to add to the e-mail. "I don't think you're going out alone again for a while, buddy."
"But I'm fully functional," It didn't quite sound like it, but he could nevertheless almost sense the android's confusion.
"We humans are silly like that," He points out, closing out of the form – those are always quick enough and mostly end up going unread – and moving on to writing the e-mail with it attached, "She doesn't want you to get attacked again. Not that I'd put it past some of those bastards to attack an old lady, but still." Tony finishes typing up the e-mail and stands, turning back to the android who's still standing by the table, "You can go into sleep mode in that corner and I'll wake you up when it's time to leave," he motions to a corner of the room where three other androids – two AX400 and one JB100 – currently stood, both also waiting to be reactivated at pick-up time.
Frank seems to hesitate for a moment before nodding and walking over to the corner, aligning himself with the remaining androids and closing his eyes. Once the LED starts pulsing a lazy yellow Tony knows he's in sleep mode, probably running a thorough diagnostic of the recent repairs.
The fact that the past few minutes felt like routine makes his breath catch for a second, the lack of anything else to occupy it making the fact that he's grown used to this much more prominent. He can tell himself he's only biding his time all he wants, check his growing bank account, and review every theory he's thought about so far, but the facts are that he's slowly growing accustomed to living in this reality, even comfortable enough to forget he wasn't home for a moment there. It's only been six months, but it somehow feels like an eternity since he last held Pepper close or spoke to his bots, he shouldn't be able to forget that.
I don't wanna get used to this, he admits in the safety of his mind, only sighing outwardly and proceeding to grab his jacket before leaving the room through the back door. It only takes a few minutes for an automated cab to come to a stop in front of him, allowing Tony to proceed with his inner crisis in a more comfortable environment.
Sometimes he wishes the portal had spit him out on a different planet, somewhere that didn't look and feel so familiar to where he wishes he was while being disconcertingly unfamiliar at times. It would be harder to forget his surroundings if they were composed of alien foliage and strangely colored people, he figures and huffs out a humorless chuckle at the thought. Instead, he's regularly startled by the small dissonances between realities, from not being able to listen to a specific song he remembers liking to finding out that Matthew Ellis was never president. It's destabilizing, feeling unwittingly comfortable and then being sharply reminded that he's not where he belongs and how could he forget it for even a second, forget them.
A sign outside the window grabs his attention and he makes a rushed decision, abruptly ending the trip and climbing out of the cab. What he finds after entering the place that caught his eye is exactly what he'd expected: a small, hole-in-the-wall kind of bar, with a TV playing some sort of match far too loudly, and a couple of patrons spread around, not too many but not exactly empty either. He beelines to the bar, already pulling out his wallet and scanning the options on the wall behind it.
"Scotch, neat," he informs when the bartender – some young thing that probably also has classes in the morning but wasn't as lucky as Sofia – gets to him. He waits until it's poured before clicking his tongue as the bottle is pulled away, "Just leave the bottle, kid."
"I shouldn't," the boy looks nervously toward the back of the bar and Tony figures the owner might be around there somewhere.
He glances at the bottle, checking the label – Ardbeg, he'd expected Macallan but isn't disappointed either way – and placing a hundred and a fifty on the counter, "That's more than a full bottle, no one's gonna be mad about it. Leave it."
"Yessir," the kid seems happy enough to take the money then and quickly moves on to the next customer.
Tony scans the bar a second time, but there's none of the feeling of being observed and judged that he'd find back home. No one is particularly likely to be slinking around and waiting to take advantage of his drinking, no one even knows his name. It's something he's wished for before, but now it only makes his throat tighten and his eyes start to burn. He gives drinking etiquette the middle finger and downs the scotch in one large gulp, exchanging that feeling for the burn on his throat instead. It feels like coming home after months of at most a beer or two during meals, and fuck if that doesn't make him tighten his hold on the cup almost enough to break it.
He pours himself some more instead.
He comes to at the sound of his alarm and with a pounding headache intent on punishing him for every bad decision taken the night before. The pillow muffles his tired groan and he feels up the bed with his right hand, trying to locate his phone to stop it from helping the hammer that's currently trying to bash his head in. His hand finds something warm and skin-like instead, and Tony suddenly feels much more awake, lifting his head from the pillow to look at the other side of the bed.
There's a woman in his bed. She's got her back to him, so he can't see her face, but her naked shoulders and back have freckles scattered through them, and her hair is only a few shades off from-
"Wake up," he snaps almost without meaning to after sitting up on the bed, and the woman visibly startles awake.
"Sh- don't do that!" She chuckles breathlessly as she turns on the bed to offer him a smile, "Good morning," she says, whatever her name is. He doesn't remember it, doesn't remember most of the night before to be honest, all he knows is that he's fucked up and her eyes are wrong.
"You have to go," He tells her instead, too wrapped up in his inner panic to give a shit about the tone.
She blinks confusedly for a moment, as if willing the fog of sleep away, before her smile turns into a scowl, "fuck you too," she hisses, though it sounds halfhearted at best, and slips out of the sheets to start gathering her clothes off the floor.
He doesn't spare her another glance, falling back on the bed with a pained groan and only moving when she calls him over to open the door. He sees her out and locks the door behind her before leaning his back on it and sliding down to the ground, letting the severity of what he'd done finally settle in without an audience to witness it. People have said many unflattering things about him, and a great amount of them are even true. He knows he's selfish, impulsive, vain, self-centered, and many other unflattering things, but something he's never been is a cheater.
First time for everything, his traitorous mind tells him with no sympathy for his situation. Not that he deserves any.
For the first time in six months, he doesn't feel the crushing need to get himself home as quickly as possible. Pepper deserves better than a fuck-up who gets blackout drunk and cheats on her at the first opportunity, and maybe all of their on-again off-again periods were a sign that it wasn't going to work in the first place.
She thinks I'm dead, he remembers suddenly, wondering how long it will take her to move on and find herself someone better, someone who actually deserves her.
Maybe they're all better off without me.
Another time skip, the next one might be shorter but we'll see. HK400 is Carlos Ortiz's android's model btw.