For once, Pietro didn't have anything to say for himself and yet he hung around like a stubborn grease stain. An embarrassing denial, at least, would excuse his lingering, even though it wouldn't help either of them, or maybe he could try playing dumb since it wouldn't be much of a departure from reality. He just stood there, the parts looming behind him, none of them worth anything like that. Was Tony supposed to be saying something?
At least Clint and Wanda realized Tony had nothing else to give and didn't bother with him anymore. Maybe being on Genosha fucked up Pietro's brain again and he didn't realize there wasn't anymore mansions or skyscrapers or fancy dinners or expensive gifts or cars or trips to the islands. There wasn't going to be another organ transplant or brain surgery for that pesky mind-control implant. There wasn't a fully stocked bar or a new wardrobe or an exclusive party invitation. Tony didn't even put the food on the table anymore. What the fuck else could Pietro want from him? He could have it, Tony didn't care, whatever he had to give. His space, fine, Pietro could invade it while Tony had his back turned and refuse to leave when asked; he could have it. And the robot? What was that? His privacy? His dignity? Fine, fucking take it, Tony was weak and a coward and everything fucking died; he couldn't pretend some animal lived on in a bunch of junk on the floor. His parents, all the happy little boys and girls who couldn't have avoided the perfectly integrated and always lethal STARK landmines, Rumiko, everyone still out there because Tony couldn't get his shit together and fix it. Pietro could have it. Tony sniffed, unable to meet Pietro's eye, and rubbed the tears from his cheek before turning to wander blearily away, trying to remember why he had even come here. Right, he wanted to lay down, just for a minute. He could find somewhere else. Most of the cells were occupied, but there were whole rows deeper down that were untouched. Hell, the liquor store probably had a break room.