Helens (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} helens78) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} porn_battle, |
The armor isn't a car. It's so much more dangerous than a car. It has repulsor rays, it has explosives, it can go suborbital, it can tear down--and tear through--buildings.
Nobody in his right mind would let Tony behind the wheel of a car right now, and Jim isn't going to let him into the armor, either. Not if he can help it.
"Jarvis, shut down the suit-rig," he yells out. He slams a shoulder into the door that leads out to the workshop; nothing budges. He wasn't really expecting it to.
Jarvis sounds calm as ever. "I can't do that, Mr. Rhodes--I am programmed to obey direct orders--"
"This is a direct order. Shut down the rig--"
"Mr. Stark has ordered me to--"
"Mr. Stark is going to get his ass killed if you let him in the suit. Don't you follow Asimov's Three Motherfucking Rules of Robotics?"
"I am only familiar with Asimov's Three Rules of Robotics, not Asimov's Three Motherfucking Rules of Robotics--"
"Right, right, right, whatever, so a robot may not--through inaction--allow a human being to come to harm. Do you know how much he's had to drink?"
"Mr. Rhodes, I am not a robot. I am an artificial intelligence construct presently housed inside Mr. Stark's household supercomputer--"
"Shut down the goddamn rig now, Jarvis!"
The door to the workshop slides open, and Jim stumbles through, head whipping from side to side as he looks for Tony. There he is -- black bodysuit on, arc reactor glowing through the thing, but he's just staring at the floor under his feet, swaying a little. The suit's not on him. Thank God.
Jim walks over and grabs Tony's arm. Tony falls over on him, and Jim makes the mistake of breathing in. "Goddamn, you stink," Jim grumbles, forcing Tony upright again. "Now listen. Listen. I'm taking you upstairs."
"No," Tony says. "I gotta go--"
"No way. You're not going anywhere, not like this. You sober up, I'll think about it."
"You're fired. Get out." Tony shoves at him, hard; they both end up sprawling. Tony hits his head against the floor, though, so Jim's up on his feet first.
He squats down next to Tony and gets a hand on his shoulder, gives him a rough shake. "You want to fire me from working with you, fine. You can't fire me from being your friend."
"Oh, yeah?"
Jim waits for the real zinger; when it doesn't come, he shakes his head. "You're losing your touch, man. Jarvis scored better on the sarcasm meter than you just did. 'Oh, yeah?' That's tough-guy talk right there."
"Fuck you."
"Closest you're gonna get to that is me carrying your drunk ass to bed, unless you think you can walk there."
One of Tony's arms comes up and bats ineffectively at Jim; Jim's not even sure what he was trying to do. It sure as hell wasn't enough to be a punch, and Tony's not really the punching type anyway--he's more the I can kill you with my brain type. The armor's one aspect of that, the most physical one Tony Stark's brain is likely to come up with. Thank God Jarvis didn't let him get into it.
"I'm not kidding, man. You gonna walk or do I have to carry you?"
He ends up carrying Tony--fireman's carry, slung over one shoulder. Jim's glad Tony doesn't weigh any more than he does, because it's a long way up all those stairs. Once he's got Tony in bed, he eyes the bodysuit. It looks stretchy, sure, but taking it off of him seems like it'd be like picking up a sleeping cat. Not as easy as it seems.
He shrugs and pulls his own boots off, slings his jacket over the back of the armchair in the corner. At least the armchair's comfortable. He wishes he didn't know that from experience.
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