For his part, Tony appeared to hardly notice Billy at all, focus barely settling on him at his address before darting around again. Billy wasn't the unexpected element. Billy was the constant and-- his eyes back on the boy, this time with his brow furrowed, swallowing several times to just a dry click in his throat-- well and alive, despite Iron Man's best fucking efforts, obviously. Thank Vishnu, if they were even still in India. This lasted just a little longer than the first time as Tony pushed himself up onto his elbow, hand on his chest, gingerly fingering the stitches. If the salt smell, strange weightlessness and round windows were anything to go by, they were still on that tanker Iron Man had made his attack on. So when he acknowledged Billy this second, prolonged time, tactilely exploring the skin that hadn't, in fact, knit itself back together and adorned with fucking wires, it was with eyes incrementally widening with alarm.
That, and why the fuck was the kid naked, that was pretty fucking weird.
Another slam into the door put that thought on hold, and Tony flung an arm out, gesturing wildly and ineffectively at Billy to get the fuck out of the way and do something useful because those didn't sound like the friendly kind of slams. This picture was certainly coming together fast. He lurched forward and had one leg hanging off the bed when the door splintered.
Shouting, why did they have to shout when everything hurt enough already? One foot on the ground, guys shouting in languages he didn't know and waving guns, vertical for just long enough to think this was going to be easy, then Tony went down, one hand slamming onto a counter for balance and toppling a tray of instruments that just rang and sung as they hit the ground with him. The wires in his chest jerked upward, tearing the skin again, stitches popping-- those weren't the right words, tearing, popping, tearing in the way that wet tissue tore, more like sloughing. His bones hurt.
One of those guys, still shouting, was shouting right at him, getting closer, demanding he understand. Tony, his ears ringing and his skin sloughing, vomited. The guy skipped back half a step, still rocked back, holding midstep on his toes when Tony spat into the milky, yellowish puddle, a wet string clinging to his lip and stretching for the bile that roiled and suddenly made the motion of the ship so obvious, when Tony lifted his head and one hand darted out.
The guy grunted, surprised, lurched forward and jerked his leg back, the fabric of his pants sliced clean across his shin. Tony met him on his way down, stabbing upward, fist held against his chest when the guy just froze, choked. That was a question the other guy was shouting now, and Tony's eyes darted back to Billy, blood starting to run stark red and thick over his knuckles.