It was late by the time Tony made his way down into the basement. He had slept the sleep of the heavily drugged for most of the morning and into the following night despite what he'd claimed to Pepper about refusing sedation. (Apparently painkillers made you sleepy.)
The elevator made a polite ding sound, and Tony appeared in the open basement space, illuminated by the trademark blue light that traveled back and forth in elegant geometric patterns on the walls. He was on a strict no booze diet while he was on the pain killers (go figure) so he didn't bring any beer down with him, just a pizza box, balancing it on one hand.
Tony had a lot of pride, some that he disguised and some that he didn't. Refusing to lie around or use a cane was currently being blamed on "keeping his mobility" while the nasty burn on his right calf healed. He limped and winced instead, which was probably at least as uncomfortable for everyone watching as it was him. His left forearm was stitched up neatly and bandaged, and he was grudgingly wearing a sling to keep the dislocated shoulder in place.
The gray clothing was out-of-the-box new, probably an outfit that he wore and ruined a hundred times over.
Tony limped over to the edge of the cell. He was fairly intent on his path and not the man he was there visiting, at least until he arrived. Then he looked through the glass. "Pizza?" He held the box up and smiled.